Title: The Glory of the Sands (1/2)
Author: klmeri
Fandom: Star Trek AOS
Characters: Kirk, Spock, McCoy
Disclaimer: No profit is being made on this story. This is flagrant entertainment.
Summary: Victorian-ish AU.
Or read at AO3

“I would not have thought to act as you did, doctor. Truly, you are the most courageous of us all!”

Leonard is taken aback by these words. He is not a brave individual, no more so than the principles of a doctor demands when faced with the choice between life or death for a person in dire need of aid. Certainly he had known great fear once he left the shelter of the medical encampment, a meager bag of supplies in hand, to find the missing man. Yet Leonard could no more deny his instinct than a soldier hastening through the heat of battle to the side of a fallen comrade. That is the code inherent in the oath he took long ago: no one must be left behind.

Doctor Leonard Horatio McCoy is careful to say in a gracious tone, “I thank you, madam, for your resolute belief in my good character. I must, however, deny any such claim of extraordinary behavior.”

“I say!” exclaims the man who flanks the woman’s chair as a solicitous vulture might, for the lady is both wealthy and unattached. “Doctor, how serious you look. One would think Lady Jocelyn has accused you of a crime most foul.”

This earns no acknowledgment from the woman, who languidly fans herself and complains of the heat. “Exotic as these lands are, the sun is quite dreadful! I have the worst headaches.”

Leonard comprehends her statement for what it is—a lure—and falters under her coy stare. “Madam…”

“Why, doctor, you need not address me so formally. To my friends I am simply Jocelyn, and we are the greatest of friends! I shall presume to address you as Leonard without a modicum of shame.” Her smile is far less demure than it had been at the start of the evening.

The other man’s expression sours with jealousy.

Leonard has no love for Mr. Clay Treadway. He gleans from the sharp appraisal in Treadway’s eyes that the sentiment is returned with equal strength.

Perhaps sensing that the atmosphere of the room is ripe to go amiss, the hostess Christine Chapel intercedes brightly into their small party of three. Her hand winds through Leonard’s arm as she addresses the others, “Oh, but aren’t we having fun?” She then quickly cuts through Treadway’s would-be sarcastic reply and leaves the fair Jocelyn no time to form a protest beyond an unintelligible syllable of sound with “You must allow me to steal a portion of the doctor’s time.” McCoy is expertly steered in another direction.

Leonard, grateful to be removed from the attentions of Lady Jocelyn, sighs with gusto. His escort undoubtedly interprets this as a sign of acceptance of her plans.

“I was just conversing with Mr. Spock. He admitted to knowing so little of how the English practice medicine. I assured him we are well-versed in the sciences, and now he requires further details.” By this point in her excited chatter, to which only Leonard is subject, Christine is gripping his forearm tightly.

Leonard forbears the somewhat painful effects of her enthusiasm with dignity. “Christine.”

“What a rare opportunity!” the young woman crows; whether or not she is deliberately ignoring his interruption Leonard cannot determine. Chapel’s carefully cultivated accent slips into a cockney lilt for a brief moment but she seems not to notice, and Leonard is too much of a gentleman to draw attention to a detail which would only remind her of the circumstances into which she was born.

“You must make the best of this meeting, Doctor McCoy. Take care not to offend Mr. Spock’s pride. I have heard his people are deeply entrenched in their culture; to them, we English are the infidels.”

Leonard’s snort is quite the opposite of lordly. It is a tribute to his quick mind that a rebuttal is near-to-hand, but Christine lends him no opportunity to speak. He is ushered through wedges of curious people, and the pair arrives at the other side of the crowded room without delay.

After a short round of introductions, Leonard is remanded into the care of Mr. Spock. The doctor is hard-pressed to catch the whip of Christine’s blue-hued skirt as she barrels at full speed back into the melee. A tight-knit group of women stand some feet away from Doctor McCoy and Mr. Spock and are observing the gentlemen with a keen interest. Leonard mocks a proper bow in their direction, immediately after which the ladies return to gossiping feverishly behind their fans.

A cool voice—not un-reminiscent to Leonard of a desert night, both deeply soothing in its respite from hotter temperatures and still chill-inducing in its natural danger—draws his attention back to his duty to supply meaningful (and non-provocative, if Leonard is to heed the warning of his colleague) conversation and society to an honored guest. The voice says, “Miss Chapel praises your aptitude for the medical arts, Doctor McCoy.”

“She would,” he mutters, annoyed in the slightest of manners that Christine can so easily manhandle him into a position he is certain to despise in due time. Then, because some people may think Leonard McCoy capable of unwelcome rudeness despite his gentlemanly upbringing (a fit of ill-temper, his conduct is alluded to), he makes an effort to engage this new audience. “Am I to understand that you are interested in medicine, Mr. Spock?”

“People are of interest to me, regardless of profession” is the serious reply. “I find the study of a man’s behavior, of his lifestyle choices and his ethics, among other things… fascinating.“

Leonard is caught by the way the man says that last word, as if a mere measure of fascination rivals ambrosia of the gods. “What could possibly fascinate you in this room, Mr. Spock? Herein lies the most egotistical and self-serving faction of the East.”

“Indeed, what alarming news—that such a faction could exist in the household of a consulate,” states the foreigner in his uniquely accent-less tone.

“Ah, but what better qualifying place to look?”

Mr. Spock is very amused by Leonard’s bold classification of his peers, the doctor thinks. The amusement is evident in the slant of the man’s eyebrow—and quite a remarkable eyebrow it is. Leonard’s own brow lifts accordingly in a mimicking retaliation.

Now that the doctor’s eyes are fixed upon Mr. Spock, he finds that he approves of the aristocratic curves of the man’s cheekbones, as well as the neat trim of his dark hair. Leonard is not unkempt himself, but he often is without thought for his appearance until he is required to wear a certain high standard of dress, such as his current black ensemble at this soiree affair.

Inexplicably disconcerted that he has perused the foreign official so thoroughly, Leonard lets his eyes drift to the tall-paned set of windows on the western side of the room. The scenery is beautiful; dusk brushes the horizon, illuminating a razed span of desert beyond. One could almost delineate the peaks of soldiers’ tents many miles out from this base. It is rumored that the captain of the regiment bunks with his men in the dry and dusty heat rather making use of the consulate’s large residence, as is permitted of the station of an army captaincy.

Someone coughs loudly, snapping Leonard’s wandering thoughts back to the party at present. The perpetrator is the Consulate himself and host of this event, Sir Roger Korby. With another hacking cough, the fellow gestures wildly with his smoking pipe, quite oblivious to the drifts of ash upon a richly colored carpet.

Leonard’s mouth thins with disapproval when he breathes in the stench of tobacco. Oh but this man is a fool! One good look at the state of a blackened lung autopsied from a veteran smoker and Korby would reconsider his nasty habit. Why Christine would allow herself to become fiance-ed to him…

“Doctor McCoy?”

Damnation, he had forgotten about Mr. Spock!

“You are clearly pre-occupied, doctor. Shall we retire our conversation for the evening?”

If only he could agree so easily. “I am afraid if I appear to lack in distraction I may be accosted, Mr. Spock.”

“Ah.” Those dark eyes sparkle with intelligence. “I had observed that you were in the company of the consulate’s niece for an unusual length of time.”

Leonard would agree without difficulty that Lady Jocelyn (never mind her black dog Treadway) is one of the most tenacious females he has ever encountered. She is strong in her confidence; and to most men she would be deeply tempting. The doctor, however, is a man of simpler tastes.

“Might I inquire of the wounded regiment officer you rescued some days past?”

Leonard closes his eyes. When he speaks, his voice belies his weariness. “Of course. He lives, if that is your concern.”

“Forgive me if the subject is distasteful to you.”

He opens his eyes, full of consternation. How many times must he play these word games? Everyone is so shamelessly curious about the doctor’s role in saving the young soldier’s life, yet they will guilt him into re-telling the same story by pretending concern.

“What is it that you must know, Mr. Spock, which qualifies as fascinating to your sensibilities? Shall I describe the severity of his wounds, or that dehydration had weakened his mental state to the point of hallucination?” He closes the distance between them towards the end of his moderately abrasive speech. “Does another man’s misfortune entertain you so readily, sir?”

“Quite the opposite,” returns the other gentleman, stiff in his Eastern attire. “I merely desire to inquire of the man’s name.”

Leonard draws back as if struck. “His name?”

“Yes. I anticipated I might gain your permission to visit his bedside and assuage my conscience that he is comfortable and suitably tended. It is a well-known fact, Doctor McCoy,” adds the man, “that the political alliance between our governments balances on a knife’s edge. Should any Englishman suffer in this occupied territory, whether or not by his own misjudgment, the consequences are far steeper to others. Your army has a military prowess we do not–and I seek to prevent a rage which could turn weapons upon innocent civilians for the sole reason that they are not English.”

“I—” He is quite horridly ashamed of himself. Mr. Spock, it seems, is more kindred to Leonard’s morals than he had assumed. “I asked after the man’s name during one of his more lucid states. Kirk, he said. I am not certain if Kirk is his surname or simply a name haunting his dreams.”

“Have you spoken to the captain of his identity?”

“I have not,” admits the doctor. Saving the soldier’s life had ranked above a private conference with Captain Christopher Pike. Now, in the aftermath of a tiring surgery, Leonard suspects something untoward about this business of the solider. The two officers—Mitchell and DeSalle, if his memory is to be trusted—who accompanied McCoy into the desert in pursuit of the missing man did not recognize their comrade on sight, despite that he was clothed in the standard uniform of the regiment.

He will speak with Pike, decides the doctor. On the verge of announcing his intentions, a disruption in the form of an unscheduled visitor steals his moment of speech.

“Doct’r! Doct’r McCoy!” comes a bellowing, frantic cry. The jovial air of the party is cleaved in two.

Leonard, recognizing the urgency within the cry of his name, elbows his way toward the south entrance of the spacious room. “Here!” he calls sharply. Again, “I am here!”

The young guard starts to babble upon sighting him.

Leonard claps his back with a firm, calming hand and says, “My God, man, catch your breath. What is it?”

“Doct’r, he’s gone!”

“Who?” demands McCoy.

“The p-patient, sir. You said I was not to take my eyes off ‘im, only I had to—” He lowers his voice after a quick glance at two ladies reeking of appall. “—to relieve meself, sir. ‘N I came back to find him vanished like a ghost!”

Leonard, now comprehending the exact nature of this distressed man’s confession, curses colorfully.

To his right, Lady Jocelyn gasps at the audacity of such frankness. Leonard has not the patience or mind to apologize for uncouth words in her presence. With the guard in tow, he strides across the hall of the consulate’s home and down a set of steps leading into a dimly lit courtyard. The base’s medical ward is no small distance from his present location.

“How long ago?” he asks of the guard.

“A quarter of an hour—no more.”

The poor man must have run here.

How had that… Kirk fellow managed to escape the confines of his bed with his injuries, much less the length of the entire medical encampment? Only a fool, thinks Leonard, would act so senselessly.

“Right,” he says, striking out in the correct direction and ignoring the pinch of his newly polished shoes upon the uneven ground. “We must find him immediately. Who else have you alerted?”

“Just you, sir.”

Leonard is vacillating between rebuke and gruff approval when he notices an extra shadow marching steadily upon the stone pathway with them. Its owner, upon confrontation, stills.

“Mr. Spock?” questions the doctor, astonished.

The foreign official, hands clasped behind his back, gracefully tilts his head in deference. “I shall accompany you in the search for your patient, Doctor McCoy.”

Not may I? or please disregard my pleasant evening stroll. Leonard is of a mind to snap out that he does not require assistance; but he recalls Mr. Spock’s earlier rebuttal to his misunderstanding. Leonard has not the heart to deny a man a chance to protect his people—for does not he as a doctor seek to protect others, if non-violently, as well?

“We must hurry,” he only says, turning around again.

“Agreed” comes the equally soft reply.

Next Part

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• The Glory of the Sands (2/2) – from September 18, 2011