Pairing: McCoy-centric, Reaper!McCoy/Kirk (later)
Summary: The universe has a way of maintaining status quo – even if John Grimm does not agree
Word Count: 853
Fandom: post-Star Trek XI, post-Doom crossover
A/N: Sequel to the Genetic Probability series.
It has been a year since John had stopped hiding his past, at least around those who mattered to him, he reflects. It hadn't ended well. The Enterprise and her captain were still out there, in the deep, dark reaches of space, and he was here, on good 'ol Terra Firma. Teaching at Starfleet Academy, of all things. That part still gets him, and it makes him chuckle when he thinks of how ironic it is. He hated every damn minute he spent at this academy, except the time he spent with his crazy assed roommate.
John sobers as he thinks of Jim. It breaks his heart to leave him, but it was for the best. It was going to happen one way or another, and it's better that it happened sooner. Before they did something completely stupid, like fall in love. It was better that he had left before Jim got more attached then he already was, no matter the price it extracted from John's heart.
Besides. He's only got maybe four or five more years before he has to move on. He's already getting close to pushing his luck, and John's not quite sure why he's still sticking around. Some misguided attempt to actually make something of himself he supposes. Leonard McCoy has become a highly respected member of Starfleet, and he's already making a difference in the world. As the new Xenopathology professor, he's better equipping med students on how to treat non-humans. Something Starfleet's been lacking.
John glances around at his surroundings. It's a bar, a real dive of a place. He'd never come here with Jim, which is a point in the place's favor. The booze is great, another point. There's not much atmosphere or ambiance to the place, but then, he's not exactly looking for a great time. It's a real local sort of place, and exactly what he needs tonight.
John glances at the tumbler in front of him. He can't even remember what's in it, but at this point, it doesn't really matter. It's his third bar tonight, and he's still not even close to being drunk. The woes of having twenty-four chromosomes, he thinks with an internal sigh.
He's just knocked back whatever it is, and whatever number it is, when his comm goes off.
All Certified Medical Personnel to the Hospital immediately.
"Shit." John curses softly under his breath. It didn't bode well that they were calling all medical personnel; because a large-scale crisis was not what he needed right now. Or maybe it was. Throwing himself into work did great things for distracting himself from wondering what Jim was doing, out there in the great blackness of space. Even as he hurried towards the medical hospital that dominated so much of the Academy's horizon line, Bones took just one second to spare a glance at the stars. He'd never exactly been one for space travel, but somehow, being up there with Jim made it all right. He didn't fear space – rather, he respected her power and chose to remove himself from the equation. Sam would have called it lingering mental effects of Olduvai. He calls it prudence. Just as the sailors once respected the seas as the mighty power of their world, he respects the awesome might that is the final frontier.
"Doctor McCoy!" The relief on the other doctor's face was evident, and John spares a small thought towards how pathetic it really was that these supposed best doctors in the world were looking towards him as guidance. "We have a Tellerite, a Betazoid and a Trill that need immediate surgical attention, and you're the only qualified physician on staff." John resists the urge to roll his eyes, instead reaching for a lab coat and scrubs.
In the end, the alien's medical needs hadn't ended up being all that terrible, or at least John didn't think so. He misses M'Benga. They'd worked in tandem, M'Benga always sensing what McCoy needed, and rushing to assist before he even had to ask. Starfleet is so inept in training doctors. "Doctor McCoy!" An orderly rushes into the room, trailed by a gurney with a lump of cloths barely recognizable as a human body wheeled in on a gurney behind him. John swallows. This one will not be so easy.
Tricorders are out, and the man is carefully transferred to a biobed. "Medication allergies?" He barks. The orderly takes a deep breath, and then begins to read off a list from the medical chart. "Alkysine, Axonol, Bicardine, Cordrazine, Dexalin, Hyperzine, Ipecec, Retinax V…" John stops him. "Is there anything he isn't allergic to? Quickly man!" He orders. "Well, amizine isn't listed." John wants to smack himself. Better yet, smack the orderly, and then smack the man on the table with the weird ass body chemistry.
There can't possibly be more then one man in the entire universe with that kind of wacked out set of allergies. "Orderly. The patient's name?" The man swallows.
"Captain James Tiberius Kirk sir."
The expletive that bursts out of him is not completely his fault, John later maintains.