He awoke in sickbay.

Kirk looked around him in confusion. The biobeds were all neatly made, the machines were beeping calmly and steadily in the background. The room was empty and everything seemed normal.

The memories returned all at once. Without sense or order, flashes of images and sounds and feelings thundered into his mind in an unwelcome cavalcade that was nearly physical in its intensity.

Kirk gasped and shot upright in bed, the machines flaring wildly to life. He felt as though his heart rate had leaped to approximately warp 4.

There was a noise somewhere in another room, then McCoy appeared before him.

"Jim, thank god!" the Doctor exclaimed.

Kirk's eyes moved frantically around the room, his breaths becoming more and more panicked as waves of pain and confusion assaulted him.

"Whoa, Jim, it's alright, you're fine," Bones hurried to reassure him.

The Doctor's words did nothing to alleviate his condition. Kirk squeezed his eyes shut, feeling as though he was being stabbed over and over again. Agonizing, thought-destroying pain wracked his mind and body, the likes of which he had never experienced before. He could not move. He could not breathe. All he could do was exist as the shattering pain ate its way through him.

An undetermined amount of time passed. Little by little, the pain began to lose its debilitating effects. Finally, Kirk opened his eyes. His mind was throbbing and his body ached and shuddered from the abuse it had just endured.

"Jim? Jim, tell me, how do you feel?" McCoy asked worriedly from his side.

Kirk turned and saw the Doctor before him, dangling a tricorder over his forehead. Kirk struggled for a moment, then finally managed to sit up.

"Better." He grimaced at the effort of speaking.

"What happened, Bones?"

"Well, according to my scans, there's nothing physically wrong with you. However, certain areas of your brain are under an enormous amount of pain and stress. You had a panic attack when you woke up the first time so I had to knock you out for a while," McCoy told him gently.

Kirk was hardly listening.

"What about—about the ship? And Asmodeus? And..." his voice faltered, breaking. "And Spock?" he forced out, chest flooding with icy fear.

"The ship is fine; Scotty already has repairs underway. That Asmodeus character seems to have disappeared," McCoy grunted. "It's likely that Spock got rid of him for good," he added gently, a noticeable tightness in his voice and a depth of emotion reflected in his eyes.

McCoy paused for a moment, then—with difficulty—he continued. "Spock suffered major blood loss from the stab wound in his chest. He... he didn't make it. We found you in engineering next to him; you were suffering from severe mental trauma and your body was going into shock."

Kirk couldn't hear anything past the roaring in his ears.

"Jim, I don't know how they do things on Vulcan, but I do know they have some pretty strange customs regarding... intimate relationships," Bones pressed on. His voice softened. "Since I'm your doctor and I care about you, I have to ask. What happened to you, Jim? Is there some kind of Vulcan ritual I don't know about? The brain is a delicate thing and I can't treat you unless I know what's wrong."

Kirk shoved his hands into his temples, trying to clear the lingering migraine as he attempted to bring his thoughts to order.

"We... We were bonded," Kirk finally forced out, squeezing his eyes shut and taking a deep, shuddering breath. "Spock... explained it to me, once. I don't.... I don't know all the details but he said it was like... the joining of two souls," Kirk managed to tell him.

"I used to be able to... to sense him. He could communicate with me, sometimes. Telepathically, I mean. But now, all I feel is... emptiness.... silence... and pain."

Kirk squeezed his eyes shut again, pressing his lips together before he said too much, before the grief made him lose control.

McCoy listened attentively to the Captain's words, his gaze filled with sincerity and gentleness. He reached out and placed a hand on Kirk's arm.

"Jim, I can't even begin to imagine what you're going through. Whatever this bond was, it probably wasn't meant to be severed so abruptly. A loss like this would be difficult for anyone, but your brain has undergone a severe shock. The pain is probably a side effect of having to re-adapt to a new psychological condition. I'd say you need time to recover and adjust. I'm going to put you on some medication that should help with the pain and ease your symptoms. I'm also prescribing a few days of rest in your quarters. Vulcan rituals always seems to wreak havoc on the nervous system. I can't say whether the effects will be permanent, but I will do everything I can to make sure you recover. I'm going to help you through this, Jim, you can bet your life on that."

Kirk turned to look at his friend, eyes filled with gratitude.

"Thank you, Bones. I don't know what I'd do without you," he said softly.

The corner of McCoy's mouth lifted slightly, his expression warm but his eyes tinged with a deep sadness.

"I'm going to give you a monitor so I can keep track of your brain activity, just in case," McCoy told him, moving off to gather some equipment. "I'll tell the crew you were injured and you're not to be disturbed while you're recovering. We're still a ways out from the next mission so it should be perfectly fine for Scotty to take temporary command in the meantime."

As McCoy returned with his supplies, Kirk silently nodded in agreement. The movement caused a sharp flare of pain behind his left eye. He winced, sucking in a breath. While Kirk hated relinquishing his command for any reason, he fully agreed that he was in no fit state to look after his crew. All he wanted right now was the blissful release of unconsciousness.

"The painkillers are probably wearing off by now. Once we get to your quarters, I can give you something to help you sleep," McCoy told him sympathetically. After attaching the monitor, he helped Kirk to his feet, making sure he was fully capable of walking on his own before finally releasing his grip from the Captain's shoulder.

The walk to Kirk's quarters was uneventful as most of the crew were still busy with repairs. Upon reaching his room, Kirk sank down onto the bed, exhaustion finally setting in.

"I'll come by and check on you tomorrow. In the meantime, here are some pills to help you sleep and doesn't hesitate to contact me any time if you need anything."

McCoy placed a bottle on the table next to Kirk's bed. The Captain nodded woozily, then all but fell onto the pillow. The last thing he remembered before drifting off into darkness was the feeling of McCoy carefully tucking the blanket around him, his normally grumpy face hovering over him with nothing but care and concern in his eyes as Kirk finally relaxed into slumber.

————————————————————————

Kirk abruptly regained awareness, his gaze flying through the room as he again tried to remember what happened. He had no idea what time it was or how long he had been asleep. After raising himself into a sitting position, the crashing realization hit him once more.

He doubled over, gasping in agony. The pain was back—the blinding, heart-wrenching pain that consumed his very being, as if his soul itself was deserting him, slowly pooling into a void that tore it to pieces. Something was missing, something important, something vital.

The bond was severed, leaving only sharp, jagged remains which stabbed into his heart with every beat. They tore at his lungs with every breath and ripped through his mind with every thought. The numbing pain continued as the vestiges of a torn link kept trying to rejoin with its counterpart—no matter that it was impossible, no matter that all it would find was a dark, sickening abyss.

His Vulcan wasn't coming back, and now the silence was like a cage, filled with all the words that could no longer be shared, trapping him and pressing him against the stifling emptiness, crushing down on his lungs until he couldn't speak, couldn't breathe because there was no one to hear him, no one left to share in his grief.

McCoy stopped by a little later to check in. Kirk struggled to avoid snapping at his friend, giving only mono-syllable answers in response to his queries. It pained the Doctor to see him like this—his friend's aching heart so battered and sore, the grief McCoy felt as he, too, had to come to terms with Spock's death, his inability to reach perhaps the only other person who could fully understand their loss.

Kirk knew he was being selfish, but there was no way to explain, no way that the Doctor could possibly fix or even understand the damage that had been done. How could anyone else begin to fathom how precious Spock had

been—and would be always, Kirk ferociously reminded himself.

Where was his light? Where were the soft, ever-present buzz of emotions and thoughts that used to rest in the back of his mind, the comforting pull of Spock's warmth and reassurance guiding and centering his entire being? He had grown accustomed to this mental feedback; it was as familiar to him as the constant humming and whirring of the Enterprise itself. Harmonious impressions, thoughts that were not his own, conversations he would perceive with his mind instead of his ears. It had brought him contentment and pleasure and solace. He had incorporated the Vulcan into himself so completely that he had no longer been able to distinguish whose thoughts were whose or where a certain idea had originated. Spock had quite literally become a part of his identity, his thought process, his way of life. The loss of something so utterly vital left him empty in a way he could not ever hope to describe. Though Kirk had only been bonded with Spock for a short time, he had completely forgotten what it was like to live without his presence. Everything became alien to him; the way he felt, the way he thought, the way he perceived the world. He had lost a part of himself and his existence had been irrevocably altered because of it. He no longer knew who he was—and it frightened him to death.

As the days went by, Kirk shut himself in his quarters and grieved. He grieved for the loss of such a bright, promising soul, for Spock's bravery and stubbornness, his undying loyalty and commitment to duty, his rare, genuine smiles and his logic that grounded him time and time again, for the way Spock was—flawed and beautiful and unafraid, for all the galaxies they would never see, for the way it would never be again—

The silence was unbearable. The loneliness was crushing. It was as if he had lived his entire life in a world of sunshine and brilliant blue,

then—in an instant—the universe had winked into dark. Within his mind, there was only blackness—oozing, sickly, dripping, edging closer, pure and full, and there was no light in it at all. Not a single shining star to bring the promise of hope. All swallowed, drowning in the darkness.

Extinguished.

Kirk squeezed his eyes tighter, curling in on himself. But for all he dug his fingers into his arms and tucked himself up to his chin—wrapping himself over and around as far as his skin would stretch—it still came. The emptiness surrounded him, wedging itself into the cracks in his defenses, poisonous and cruel and unrelenting.

Get up.

Kirk squeezed his eyes tighter, pulled his skin closer, and shoved back the all-consuming depths, the nightmares tugging at his fingertips.

Get up.

Breathing did not work. He wished with all his

might that he could just meditate his emotions away, that he could control his mind and his body and his breathing just by the power of thought, as his Vulcan once could. The memories stung against the back of his eyes, the nightmares refusing to stay within the confines of his dreams.

Get up.

Curled on the floor, he reached above him. Vision dim and flickering, heart heavy and sick, Kirk extended a hand.

And the Doctor was there to take it.

As the sobs wracked his body, Kirk's mind forever calling out into an endless void, the pain of loneliness and isolation and gone, gone, gone, never coming back—Kirk found that the Doctor was always there to hold him, if not to understand his pain but at least to witness it, to provide some sense of meaning to the endless grief and agony that consumed him.

But even as the Doctor offered his comfort, drawing upon their shared sorrow and friendship, Kirk knew that he would not—could not ever truly comprehend the possibilities of a Vulcan mating bond. He did not know of the joys and pleasures, of the complete trust and understanding and surrender of one's entire being into a shared light, a shared bond, a shared love. He did not know the pain of living without a part of himself, to be forced to go on despite the irreparable loss that filled his soul—a loss that he was responsible for. How could Kirk even begin to make amends, to atone for his failure in protecting all that he and Spock once shared?

McCoy had told him over and over that it wasn't his fault, he wasn't to blame, there was nothing more that he could have done. But of course it was his fault. That was the job of a starship captain. To take responsibility for all the lives, all the actions, and all the failures of those under his command. Including his own. Especially his own. And so Kirk carried the guilt on his shoulders, the weight of it heavy and draining and real—the only thing he had left to fill the darkness. There was no being, no power in the universe the could have reached him—for if there are self-made purgatories, then Kirk was forced to live in his.

No matter how many times the Doctor tried to console him, Captain Kirk would not be

moved—refusing to accept anything beyond the void that had entered his heart. And yet, McCoy never once showed signs of defeat—forcing Kirk to take his medication, to rest, to eat, coaxing the Captain through his breathing and his grief as he tried to return at least one of his friends back to the land of the living.

On the 5th morning since Kirk woke up in sickbay, McCoy convinced him to leave his quarters. It was more an attempt to escape his own self-pity than to acquiesce to the Doctor's method of treatment.

As Kirk put on a clean uniform and stared at himself in the mirror, he noticed the dark circles upon his skin, the sunken cheeks and lifeless eyes. It was the face of a stranger.

Kirk moved through the ship slowly, acknowledging various well-wishers as he let his feet guide him through the corridors. There was a definite sadness in the air, a sense of loss and subdued respect as everyone adjusted to life without Spock on board. But life still went on. His crew still had their duties, their assignments, their posts. Everyone seemed to move with a purpose except him. The repairs were well underway, so Kirk busied himself in mundane tasks—coordinating work teams, signing off reports, approving new assignments.

The Doctor had told him that the time for isolation was over and keeping himself occupied was now the best thing that he could do. Kirk managed that well enough during the waking hours—constantly finding more tasks to complete or making endless rounds of the

ship—all in an attempt to keep his mind from wandering and letting others know the true extent of his sorrow. Because no one had a clue how much he had been changed. No one truly understood the depth of his loss. It was like he was bleeding out, slowly and endlessly—an un-closable would, invisible to others but had followed him since the moment Spock fell to the ground, lifeless beside him on the cold, hard floor.

Each day, he tried again—to devote himself fully to the job at hand, to distract his thoughts and eventually find his way back to living. And tomorrow, he would repeat the cycle. And the next day. And the day after. He had to keep trying. If he stopped, he thought he would drown.

Kirk focused on living one day, one moment at a time. Thinking too far into the future or the past was forbidden—both dead ends. McCoy said he was making progress, but there was a sadness in his eyes as the number of days since he had last seen Kirk smile rose higher and higher. Kirk was surviving—even if it meant he would never truly feel alive again. Because surviving meant living with parts of himself that were dead.

Everyone said that time healed everything. Kirk wondered if by time they meant hours or days or years. Or maybe lifetimes. Would he ever be able to regain some semblance of the life he once had?

Every moment that he was not fully occupied became dangerous. His mind refused to let him rest. Image after image, thought after thought assaulted him, taunted him. Deep brown eyes seemed to stare through his soul—across the abyss of his mind when his eyes were closed and across the vastness of space when his eyes were open. Some days it seemed there was no escape—the ache deepening within him like a thorn twisting in his heart, pinning him down into the world below.

Sometimes he would wake in the middle of the night, wrenched violently to awareness, shivering in the wake of his nightmares and clutching desperately at the blankets, trying—and failing—to turn his broken gasps into even breaths. He would sit upright in the empty bed, powerless to do anything but cover his face so that he would not see the emptiness, the darkness of his surroundings—so barren, void and cruel. He would bury his face into the pillow, curled up under the sheets as he let his tears fall in the privacy of the night.

His only comfort, his only defense against the all-consuming despair was the thought of Spock's strength and courage—constantly supporting him even when he was not there in physical form. Spock had sacrificed

everything—saving the Federation with only his bravery and will. Kirk owed nothing less than to do the same. Spock believed in him, once. Spock had faith in him and his abilities. And Kirk could not afford to let him down.

If Spock were here right now, Kirk knew exactly what he would say. He would tell Kirk that he had the strength and determination to survive this. He would say that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. He would remind Kirk of his ship and his crew-mates, his duty to Starfleet and to each and every person with whom he served. He would say that he was his bond-mate, but his crew was his family too, and they deserved the same effort and dedication that Kirk had always shown them. And then Spock would list off all the wonders Kirk had yet to see, all the things he had yet to do. The things he must do.

And so Kirk went on.

For Spock's sake.

For his ship, his crew, and his bond-mate, this was something Kirk had to do.