Locutus of Borg

"Welcome back." the greeting was offered softly so as not to startle the patient. But also because the speaker's voice was suddenly very dry. This was too hard.

Patient. Why did that word now have such an evil connotation? This was not a victim of disease or physical malady. This being, this friend was a victim of something far far worse.

"How do you feel?" It was a stupid question, asked of habit, and not meant to return the truth; a truth the speaker did not wish to hear.

"I feel... almost human. With just a bit of a headache." But it wasn't just a headache, it was heartache, and perhaps, for an agony this large, there was no cure. Certainly none of the officers facing Locutus of Borg could offer one.

They chose to beam directly to sickbay to avoid the prying, accusing, or even pitying eyes of the crew. It was a small comfort, but appreciated none the less.

Sickbay was ready, and the officers were sent off to wait. Their last glimpse of Locutus being rolled into surgery on a gurney left them wondering if they would ever again see the face of the friend they knew and loved.

*****

There was pain and disorientation all around, and the sensation of being surrounded by a viscous substance that made moving and even breathing a struggle. Blind panic nearly won but that something deeper, some sense of discipline nearly lost amid the other sensations returned. Calmly, calmly. And the breathing slowed to a more normal rate, the heartbeat slowing, and the pounding of the head and chest easing to a dull ache.

*Where am I?*

Memory returned, the full force of what had been done and the knowledge of the inevitable result of those actions. *Of my actions.*

Tears burned eyes and throat. *I will not cry.* But so many battles had already been lost, there was no strength left to fight this one. Silently the tears fell.

Sometime later the doors slid open then closed.

"Go away."

"You always say that but you know you love my company."

Not this time. Not after what Locutus had done. *Not after what I did.*

Warm skin, a gentle caress against skin that was so very cold. It felt good and comforting. *Things I don't deserve to feel.*

"Don't pull away, please. You've done nothing wrong. It's not your fault."

There was truth in those words, yet the reality was that Locutus could not have done those things without my knowledge, without me being who I am.

"Beverly."

"Please leave, Jean-Luc. Just go."

"I can't. I won't leave you like this. Beverly, it's not your fault. You did everything you could to resist them."

"And failed. And because of me; because of my weakness, good people, my friends, are dead, and the Borg now have the knowledge they need. The knowledge to make biological weapons that will destroy lives not just on Earth, but throughout the Federation. Damn you, Jean-Luc, why did you bring me back here? Why didn't you leave me on that ship to die?"

There was tense silence for a moment, and she was sure there was something, some small measure of doubt in his eyes. At long last he reached for her, touching her face, caressing it carefully around the bandages covering the places where the implants had been. Much as she wanted to move away, to stop him from touching her ruined skin, she couldn't. She needed that warmth, that feeling of another person touching her. Dear G-d it had been too long, and she was sure, as she lay on that table feeling the implants being placed in her body that she would never feel the heat, the warmth, the tenderness of another human being again. This touch was giving her back her humanity, and as much as she wanted to die, to end the suffering she felt and the greater suffering she knew would come, she could not find it in herself to move away. G-d help her she needed this, she needed to feel human, just for a moment, and maybe, for just a little while, pretend that she could be loved once more.

There were tears in his eyes and on his face when he finally found the words to answer her. "Because I love you Beverly Crusher. And that is more than reason enough."

The tiniest part of her, the part that still dared to hope prayed that he was right.

*****

Captain's Log, Supplemental.

Today at 1437 hours we engaged the Borg. Shield and weapons modifications bought us valuable minutes but ultimately proved ineffective. Their strategy of attacking the areas of the ship we considered most important diverted attention away from their real objective. Weaponry, no matter how effective, can not compensate for errors in judgment.

Borg assault teams were repelled from the bridge and main engineering with no casualties. A third assault team successfully penetrated Sickbay's minimal defenses. Three crew members died during the attack and 9 were injured, two critically.

One crew member, Chief Medical Officer Beverly Crusher was captured by the Borg...

Picard fast forwarded the log, the recorded voice blurring to a high pitched squeal, then returning to normal.

...minimal security was stationed in Sickbay. I take full responsibility for this gross misjudgment and the resultant capture and assimilation of Dr. Crusher.

Commendations are recommended for bridge, engineering and Sickbay crews, in particular Alyssa Ogawa, Dr. Selar and Dr. Hill, each of whom sustained injuries in their efforts to protect Dr. Crusher from the Borg.

Angrily Jean-Luc Picard tabbed off the recording. So much destruction, and loss, so much pain all glossed over in a few paragraphs and a list of commendations. None of that changed the fact that he and Starfleet's mighty expert on the Borg had so grossly misunderstood the Borg and their methods. They had been thinking too much like a military mind, all strategy. The Borg didn't need to think that way. They had the military might on their side, they didn't need to be strategic about anything - they could just drive right through whatever stood in their way. No, what they needed, what they wanted was a way of eliminating the people they didn't want. They would assimilate the people they needed then eliminate the rest in one huge holocaust of destruction. It would be mass murder on a scale far larger than even the worst of the planetary wars. And in the center of it all, the master of this destruction would have been Beverly Crusher. Her medical knowledge alone would allow the Borg to achieve their goals, and with her knowledge of Starfleet command tactics, she would be the leader they needed to destroy the Federation.

Placing his head in his right hand, he reached out and started the recorder again, forwarding it to the next entry.

Captain's Log Supplemental:

After careful consideration, and upon consultation with Starfleet command, I have been ordered to use the Enterprise to stop the Borg, by any means necessary, even if it means destroying the ship and all hands. I wish it known that I believe there is an alternative and am refusing this direct order in one last attempt to rescue my missing officer and save my crew.

However, should that effort fail, I will give the order to stop the Borg at any cost.

Picard tabbed off the recorder again. They had rescued Beverly, all right, though it had cost them dearly. In return, Beverly had somehow managed to convince the Borg that they were wounded and to shut down for repairs. While they were vulnerable, Picard ordered the ship destroyed, and had actually reveled in the destruction.

Still connected to the Borg when their ship exploded, Beverly had been injured by the sudden loss of contact. There were physical scars that would take a long time to heal, and the mental and emotional scars were expected to last much longer. The doctors were still doing their tests, but it was feared that there was permanent brain damage

Utterly exhausted, Jean-Luc Picard lay his head down on the desk and tried not to think about that, or anything else. Unsuccessful, he finally gave up and pulled himself upright. If he could not have peace in his own room, then at least he could visit a friend.

With a tired sigh he left his rooms, tugging his uniform top into place as he walked.

*****

"I'm sorry, sir." she doesn't want to see you.

"Why?" he was aware that his tone was plaintive but he couldn't help it. He needed to see her. "Never mind, Alyssa. I understand." But he didn't understand, and after Alyssa had given him a long appraising look, she deliberately turned away. As soon as she did, Picard went to Beverly's private room and keyed in his entry code.

"Get out," she ordered without emotion, not even looking to see who it was. He noticed how dark the room was, and how small it felt.

"Computer lights at 30 per cent."

"No! No lights!" and she buried her head under a blanket. Her hands, the only part of her exposed, trembled in their synthaskin bandages. "Lights off!"

He went to her, trying to touch her without hurting her injured hands. "Beverly, please."

"Go away." It was a whisper but quickly grew louder as she repeated it over and over. "Go away, go away, go away!" until she was screaming.

He grabbed her pulling the blanket away and lifting her up into his embrace. She continued to scream, but didn't pull away. Finally, slowly, she quieted until there was no sound in the room but her sobbing.

He held her tightly whispering ,"It's all right." over and over and over, until the words no longer made sense and were just some senseless mantra said to calm them both.

At long last, she pulled away, laying back down and turning away. "You shouldn't have come."

"Why not?"

"I don't want you to see me like this. I don't want anyone to see me like this. I'm a monster."

"You are beautiful." He dared to touch her hair, what was left of it anyway. They had had to crop it close to her head in order to remove the implants. One side was completely shaved. Beneath the fuzz of new growth, synthaskin and bandages covered the wounds. Her face was patched in places, and some of the minor wounds were already repaired, only the shiny pinkish tint betraying the difference between her skin and the artificial.

"I will never be beautiful again. After what I've done, how can you even stand to look at me?

Slowly, with deliberate care, Jean-Luc Picard lay down beside her, gathering the fragile battered body of Beverly Crusher into his arms and holding her tight. At the moment he didn't care if the whole ship saw them. He had a terrible fear in the pit of his stomach, fear that he would never see this woman again, that he would never be able to tell her how much he loved her. That fear had been there since he'd discovered she had been kidnapped and it was still there. Although she was in his arms, he had the terrible fear that she would slip away, that somehow he would wake up and she would be gone again, never to return.

With a shudder he held her tighter until finally they slept.

*****

Wesley was waiting for him when he arrived on the bridge the next morning. The young man looked exhausted, his eyes dark with fatigue. Without words Picard motioned him into the Ready Room and offered him some tea.

"Drink it," he insisted placing the cup in Wesley's hands and steering him to a chair. It was surprisingly easy to get him to comply.

Picard ordered himself a cup and savored the taste of his favorite blend , lingering over the drink and thinking. He had seen the look of jealousy and then relief on Wesley's face when he'd come to visit his mother and found her sleeping in Picard's arms. Beverly had tried to prevent Wesley from visiting, from seeing her as she was, so the young man had taken to sitting by her side in the early morning hours, then slipping quietly away when she started to wake. During those long hours he helped her through the nightmares she could never remember when she awoke.

At least she claimed she couldn't remember. Those who knew her well didn't believe her for a moment. Her clear blue eyes were clouded with the images of what she saw in her dreams, and no denial could hide that fact.

Wesley shifted uncomfortably and set his teacup down, bringing Picard back to the present. "Sir... I would like to request permission to take my mother home. To Caldos."

Picard was a little surprised. "Your mother is expected at Starfleet Medical, Wes. They want to keep her for observation and run more neurological tests."

"I understand that, sir. And that is precisely why I want to take her home. My grandmother is a healer there." Wes looked directly into the captain's eyes, brave for his mother's sake. "She saved my mother once, on Arvada." Picard's eyes told Wesley that the captain knew this, and that there was a measure of respect for the healer although they had never met. Relaxing slightly, Wesley continued, "She will be able to provide the necessary medical care."

"Without the tests and questions?" Picard finished the young man's thoughts. "I understand.." He leaned back and sighed. "But you understand, Wesley, your mother can not hide on Caldos for the rest of her life. It is very important for her to face what has happened and for her to know that she was not responsible for it. She must understand that."

"But she will also have to face the people who do not understand. Is that not correct, sir? There will be people who blame her for the deaths, for the destruction, for the loss of the people they love." Wesley's voice gave out and he swallowed hard to stop the flow of emotion.

Picard stood, rounding the desk to stand beside Wesley. "There are always those who would rather blame someone they can see than the evil they can't see. Your mother is a strong woman, Wesley. She will survive this. And she will have all the support she needs. I will grant your request on one condition."

"Sir?"

"That I be allowed to join you on Caldos once matters are settled with Starfleet Command."

Wesley actually smiled at that. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

Picard nodded, and watched as Beverly's son walked away, the door closing behind him, leaving Jean-Luc Picard with a tinge of regret, and a lot of pride. He was a remarkable young man, the child of two remarkable people, and Jean-Luc Picard was privileged to call them all friends.

*****

Starfleet Command was not happy with their starship captain. They considered his allowing Beverly Crusher to leave without asking their permission a gross mistake, and he found himself answering to more than one admiral for his actions. As soon as they'd finished with him, the heads of Starfleet Medical wanted their pound of flesh. Jean-Luc Picard considered himself lucky to be still in one piece.

It had actually been the intervention of Deanna Troi that had settled the matter. She had clearly and calmly told the admirals exactly what she thought of their questions, their actions and of them before leaving in an exit worthy of one of Beverly's plays. With corroborating testimony from Drs. Hill and Selar, the matter was considered settled and no more was said about Beverly Crusher in an official capacity.

Off the record, however, senior members of the Enterprise staff had the misfortune of learning first hand that the matter was far from settled. Everyone, it seemed, had an opinion about Beverly Crusher, and few of them were good or charitable. It did not seem to matter that the woman had been abducted, altered, and forced to do things against her will. What those on Earth saw were the death tolls and the loss of loved ones. The pain of one woman, and her sacrifice were, to them, irrelevant.

*****

Seventeen days after Beverly and Wesley left for Caldos, Jean-Luc Picard arrived on the planet. It was a cold and rainy day, and the trees and flowers were bowed under, beaten down by the driving rain. It was a cheerless place in this weather, and seeing it caused that small bit of despair grow inside of Picard until he was wishing he had not come. The wish became stronger when he saw the exterior of the Howard home. *What if she didn't want to see him?*

His first knock was tentative, and when no one answered immediately, he strengthened his resolve and knocked again harder. This time, there was noise inside and finally someone came to the door.

"Who is it?" an old woman's voice demanded.

"Jean-Luc Picard."

A long pause and then the lock was turned and the door opened slowly, the old woman peering out at him. "You alone?"

"Yes."

The door was opened a little farther. "Then come in and mind you wipe your feet."

"Yes ma'am." Jean-Luc answered, complying quickly and wondering how much like her grandmother Beverly would become.

"We've had gawkers," she said, as a way of explaining her behavior. My girl won't come downstairs unless the shutters are all closed. She handed him a towel. "Here, dry off and warm up. Beverly and Wesley are both sleeping. But I suspect that won't last long."

"Ms Howard..." Jean-Luc spoke , but she cut him off.

"Felisa to friends and relatives. So you're the great captain. She didn't tell me you were bald."

*What did you say to that?* Picard wondered briefly, then gave it up. Why bother? "Thank you for inviting me in to your home, Felisa. It is a charming house."

"It keeps us all dry, Johnny. I put you in with the boy. He's hardly ever in there anyway. Spends most of his days and nights with Beverly." A pause, then quieter, "She didn't want you to come."

"Why?" he asked, although he already knew the answer.

"Doesn't matter. You're here. You might just be what she needs." Felisa gave him a long hard look, then smiled. "In fact, I'm sure you are exactly what my girl needs. Now don't you forget that. You've kept her waiting long enough."

A full throated scream stopped Jean-Luc's response. He was out of his chair and up the steps before realizing what he was doing. Felisa watched him go and smiled. Sometimes healing the body started with the heart, and that was one medicine the captain would have to provide.

He followed the screams to the closed door at the end of the long hallway, throwing the door open and rushing in without slowing down at all. Wesley was there, holding his mother's hands at her sides, wrestling with her to stop her from tearing at her newly healed face. There were several bloody scratches there, and a few on Wesley as well. The boy was nearly crying with frustration.

Jean-Luc went to her side, grasping her wrists tightly and helping Wesley hold her still until the screaming stopped. Beverly's eyes were open but she was focused on something far beyond their ability to see. Taking over from the exhausted boy, Picard, eased into his place on the edge of the bed and murmured soothingly in French until, after a very long time, she quieted without ever being aware of their presence.

Leaving the room, Picard led Wesley out into the hallway and closed the door. "Is she always like this?"

Wesley shook his head. "No, but the last few days have been pretty bad. Nana stopped giving her the sleeping draughts."

"Will she sleep for a while now? How often does this happen?" He took refuge in inane questions, unable to bring himself to ask the ones he really wanted answered.

"It varies, sir. She might sleep for a few hours, or she might start up again at any time."

"Can she be left alone?"

Wesley hesitated. "Sometimes, sir. But I don't like her to be alone for long."

"Then I will sit with her a while, Wesley. Why don't you take a break and get some rest yourself."

There was overwhelming relief in the young man's eyes. "Yes sir," and he quickly walked away.

Slowly and quietly Jean-Luc Picard returned to Beverly Crusher's side and waited.

That first long night of vigilance turned into a succession of long nights sitting beside Beverly's bedside. Before the end of the week a second bed was moved into the room so that Jean-Luc could get some sleep too. Beverly had resisted at first, insisting she no longer needed someone with her throughout the night, but no one had believed her shaky assertions. Ultimately Nana made the decision and Beverly put up little resistance after that. She never argued with Nana.

Jean-Luc had many hours to explore Beverly's room and its contents. He knew the title of every book, the name of every stuffed animal, the significance of every knick knack.

Sometimes during her waking hours Beverly told Jean-Luc stories about her time with Nana on Caldos. He learned much about his old friend that he had never known. And she, in turn, was treated to a rare and intimate look at her captain and friend as he reciprocated with stories of his own. It was a delicate balance they maintained, two friends in desperate need of comfort living in such close proximity. Only the presence of Nana and Wesley prevented them from succumbing to their heightened emotions.

Wesley spent hours studying, struggling to keep up with his studies for the academy while caring for his mother and helping Nana. The young man became very quiet. He spent time with his mother but often deferred to the captain and silently slipped away when Picard was in the room.

Nana Howard proved the glue that held them all together. Calmly she cooked, cleaned and tended to the daily tasks necessary to keep the household running. She took her turn with Beverly and still found time to tend the patients who came to her for curatives. She also dealt with those foolish few who wanted to get a glimpse of Beverly.

The long days spent in bed began to wear on Beverly, making her restless and irritable. Her wounds were healed or healing but her sleeping had not improved, and it was getting harder for her to pretend she could not remember her nightmares. She still refused to come downstairs unless the windows were all shuttered. Jean-Luc suspected the reason for this, although he would not dare to ask her to confirm or deny it.

*****

Early one morning Jean-Luc discovered Beverly's fears were justified. He had slipped away from Beverly's bedside intending to get a cup of tea. Beverly's sleeping was better now and it had been two days since she last woke up screaming.

Once downstairs he wandered through the comfortable rooms idly wondering where Felisa Howard was. A faint scratching sound drew his attention and he went to the front door, cup of tea in hand, to investigate.

He found the source of the sound immediately. Felisa Howard was kneeling on the wooden porch scrubbing what looked like red paint scribbles. A feeling of dread filled him and he took a step back to read the graffiti.

With half the letters already scrubbed away he wasn't certain of the exact message but it was clear that at least one person on Caldos was not happy with Beverly's presence on the planet.

Setting his tea aside he acknowledged Felisa's greeting, then knelt to join her. Taking up a scrub brush out of the pail of soapy water, he worked alongside her until the message was gone.

Once they were back inside the house, seated at the table with breakfast between them, he asked, "How long has this been going on?"

"It started the day Beverly and Wesley came home. I had to scrub the porch before they arrived. Doesn't happen every night but it happens often enough."

"Is the message always the same?"

"Not exactly, but the meaning is the same. There's at least one fool on this planet who's idiot enough to believe my Beverly is at fault for what happened."

"He's not the only one." Picard interjected. "The opinion on Earth is much the same." He paused for a moment, a frown darkening his features. "And I don't know how to make the situation any better." His fists clenched and he turned to look angrily at the town. "Why can't they just see reason?"

"Because they don't want to, Johnny. Because they are frightened and need someone to blame. Things will calm down and eventually they will forget or come to their senses. But right now we must ignore them and concentrate on helping Beverly heal." Felisa's green eyes darkened. "And to help her heal we must make her face what has happened. It's time for her to rejoin the world."

"Are you sure?" Jean-Luc asked a sense of panic filling him. "Her physical wounds are barely healed. Isn't it too soon?"

"The longer we wait the harder it will be. On all of us."

Felisa's words proved truer than anyone wished.

*****

Beverly's strength returned slowly. Nana and Jean-Luc insisted she get out of bed so she took to walking the house at all hours but still she refused to allow the shutters to be opened or to venture outside the door.

She would sit idly for hours, not speaking, endlessly turning some knick knack over and over in her hands, but never once looking at it. When someone tried to engage her in conversation she would respond at first but quickly grew frustrated, as if she were unable to find the words. At times she would stare sightlessly, tears streaking her face, and other times she paced endlessly, walking the same short path for hours. It was wearing for everyone, seeing her like this, and each of them took refuge from her pain in their own way.

Wesley continued his studies and spent less and less time with his family. He would often take his study PADDS and disappear into the woods near the house for hours.

Jean-Luc found himself becoming more and more restless. He was torn between his desire to return to Starfleet and his sense of responsibility to remain with his friend. He had been granted an extended leave, but found it increasingly difficult to remain in this house surrounded by such pain.

Nana insisted that there was no indication of brain damage the doctors had feared. As far as she, Wesley or Jean-Luc could tell, Beverly's mental faculties were unharmed. It was her psyche that bore the scars of her assimilation. Scars that would remain until she allowed herself to heal.

Her emotional state was of great concern. She took to wearing only black and often left her hair unbrushed and hanging in her face. Her bangs grew too long but she refused to cut them. Her usually immaculate nails were chewed and ragged. She ate little and retained less. Her clothing hung loosely from her gaunt frame.

And, in a household where everything did, yet did not, revolve around Beverly Crusher, the strain began to tell. Tempers grew short and occasionally words would be exchanged then immediately regretted. And watching it all, yet unable to prevent it, Beverly heaped more blame upon herself, turning everything in on itself in a circle that snared everyone in the house.

It was finally Beverly herself who realized what was happening. The realization was enough to draw her out of her self absorption a little, yet those small steps she took were enough to send her back into the nightmares.

When the night terrors returned, Beverly was determined not to let the others know. She took to venturing outside but only early in the morning or very late at night. The long walks exhausted her so that she did not awake from her dreams, although the terror was still there. Unfortunately the walks also gave her time to think about the Borg and her waking terrors soon overshadowed even the most vivid of her nightmares.

*****

Returning from an early morning walk she discovered Wesley. bucket and sponge in hand, cleaning off the front of the house.

"What happened?" she wanted to know, asking before she read the scrawled message.

"Mom! Oh, nothing, just some mischief makers." He stepped forward, trying to shield her from the sight. She didn't buy it for a minute. Stepping back she realized what the message was. "Murderer." The sudden shock left her dizzy and she almost fainted before anger gripped her, the intensity surprising her completely.

"How long has this been happening?" she demanded. "How long have you been hiding this from me?" She stepped closer, anger making her face red. Wesley unconsciously gripped the bucket tighter, unable to look away from his mother's demanding gaze. Another step and she was in front of him, her hand reaching out to grasp his arm. All of her anger and rage channeled into that contact and Wesley winced.

"Mom!"

There was confusion in the trees beyond the porch, and then shouting. Something hard whistled through the air, striking Beverly on the shoulder where new skin left her tender and sore. She cried out, reeling at the impact, then turned to face her attackers. This time she was struck on the cheek, the missile landing with a hard thud on the porch. It was a rock.

Wesley tossed the bucket aside, running past Beverly who was dazed, and leaping off the porch. The shouts grew louder and more rocks rained on the Crushers. One struck Wesley on the head and he fell to the ground.

"No! Wesley! No!" Beverly was screaming at the top of her lungs, blood flowing from the cut on her cheek as she ran to her son. A few more rocks were thrown and she raised her hands to protect herself, then fell to the ground beside Wesley. He was unconscious but relatively unharmed.

She looked up at the trees where the rocks had come from. "You dare call me a monster? You who paint threats on an old woman's house and attack an unarmed child with rocks? Fine brave people you are. You're the monsters. You do this by choice. No one is forcing you. No one put mechanical parts in your body and made you hurt people, all the time watching, but unable to control anything. You, you are the monsters. And if you want to blame me, or accuse me then at least have the nerve to stand before me, don't lurk in trees and hurt innocent people.!"

Breathless and spent, Beverly collapsed to the ground beside her unconscious son and wept. She barely felt Nana and Jean-Luc help her to her feet. She didn't remember the trip into the house at all.

She came to herself again in the dead of night. She was in her room with no memory of how she got there. The last memory she had was of the rocks, and her son lying injured on the ground. And she remembered her anger, the mindless fury that had gripped her as she had grasped Wesley's arm. And she remembered the look on his face; how she had hurt him with her touch. How he had been hurt again trying to defend her from the faceless rock throwers.

The pain that filled her now was nothing like what she had experienced before. This pain, the sudden realization of her guilt, was far too much for her battered psyche. She was a doctor, pledged to preserve life, yet the Borg had used her to kill. The waking terrors came back to her, making her gasp as all the air left her lungs. She could feel the implants again, feel the cold metal against her skin, inside her body. And she knew, no matter how hard she had tried to deny the truth, she *knew* that she was truly capable of all the Borg had asked of her. She was capable of hurting or killing. Even the people she loved most.

The image of Wesley with her scratches on his face filled her mind, shifting to the sight of him wincing in her painful grasp, then shifted again to the memory of her cherished son lying unconscious and bleeding on the ground at her feet. And she, Beverly Howard Crusher no more, towered over his fallen form as Locutus of Borg.

She stumbled into the hallway, then into the bathroom, gasping for air, unable to remember how to breathe. She fell against the cool tile wall and slid slowly to the floor, gently banging her head against her clenched fists. She rocked back and forth, gasping, desperate to make it stop make it stop MAKE IT STOP.

Eventually it did. She could breathe again, she could see again. She could send the visions away again. But when she had done all that there was nothing left. It was gone, everything gone. She knew only emptiness and despair.

All she wanted was to die.

*****

Three days later Jean-Luc Picard was ready to leave Caldos. He was sick in heart and spirit watching Beverly die. She had stopped responding to everything. If they forced her to eat, she ate. If they told her to sleep she obeyed. They dressed her, cleaned her and kept her alive, but she refused to do anything for herself, and Jean-Luc was too weary to struggle with her any longer.

She seemed to have retreated into herself to the point that she no longer even felt anything. When Nana placed antiseptic on the cuts from the rocks, she didn't even flinch.

"Johnny?" It was Nana, sounding more tired and defeated than Jean-Luc had ever heard anyone sound. He turned to look at her and found tears in those startling green eyes. He reached out to her feeling guilty for thinking of abandoning her and Wesley and Beverly.

"What is it, Felisa?"

"I've lost her, Johnny. I could save her from Arvada, but I can't save her from this. My girl is dying and there is nothing I can do." She looked up, tightening her jaw. "I want you and the boy to leave. I don't want him to see this." Minutes ago he would have taken the first transport off Caldos, but now, seeing Felisa Howard like this, he knew he couldn't leave. She and Wesley had done everything they could for Beverly. Now it was up to him.

"There must be something. Some medicine, a counselor, something."

"There's nothing. Her spirit is dead, Johnny. What's left isn't much worth saving."

"No! You can't mean that. Felisa, look at me." Jean-Luc took the old woman's hands in his own. "We can't give up. You can't give up. There has to be something we can do."

"Well then think of it, Johnny, and do it quick because we don't have much time." There was the faintest glimmer of hope in those eyes and Jean-Luc Picard felt a sudden surge of determination. He hugged Felisa Howard and stood up.

"I will do my best," he promised, and Felisa believed him.

*****

She lay on her side in the darkened bedroom. It was exactly the same position she had been in when he'd left. With a nod he sent Wesley out of the room, then closed the bedroom door loudly. Beverly didn't move.

"Beverly, it is time for you to stop this," he commanded using his best captain tone. "You have friends and family who need you and you've been selfish long enough."

Still no response. It was the same, always the same. He'd tried talking to her, holding her, caressing her. Night after night of slowly going insane as the woman he'd dreamed of holding lay in his arms and didn't even know he was there. It had driven him to desperation and tonight he was going to risk everything to bring her back.

This could not, would not, fail. For if he failed, Jean-Luc Picard would have nothing else to offer.

Carefully he took his shoes off, then his jacket, until all he wore was a thin v-neck shirt and comfortable pants. "We need to talk," he told her, then sat on the edge of the bed. No response. Shifting his weight he moved to kneel above her, leaning down to touch her face. Still no response. He shifted again, placing his hands firmly on her shoulders and rolling her onto her back. Then, carefully, he moved to straddle her, his knees on either side of her hips. It was a dangerous position, and one he'd dreamed of being in with Beverly spread out beneath him just so.

She stared blankly up at the ceiling and didn't make a move.

Putting most of his weight on his hands he lowered himself down on top of her, feeling every curve of her body as he pressed himself against her warm soft flesh. She still didn't move. Bringing his mouth to hers, he placed his lips over hers and breathed into her mouth. She shifted slightly. He raised his head, inhaled lungs full of air, then lowered his lips to hers again, and blew the air into her mouth gently and slowly.

Beneath him her chest heaved.

He repeated this five times before she moved, trying to turn her head away. He held her gently but firmly in his grasp and she couldn't get away without serious effort. He kept breathing for her until at last, she turned her head and coughed. At the same time she brought her hands up and tried to push him away.

"Stop."

He caught her hands and pinned then to the bed with gentle force. Then, shifting, he lay half on her, half off, his heart pressed to hers. Beneath him he could feel the rise and fall of her breathing, and the steady beat of her heart.

"What are you doing?" she asked after a few feeble attempts to free herself.

"You don't want your own life, so I'm giving you mine. My breath, my heart." He looked up into her eyes, desperation making him brave. "My love."

It was a whisper, but she heard it, and felt it, the way she felt the beating of his artificial heart and felt the breath enter and leave his lungs. And then, at last she understood the stirring she had felt these last few nights as he had held her in his arms. And she knew this was real.

She felt alive.

She was tingling where their flesh met and she felt the sweet tease of anticipation and desire. Her breathing quickened. She felt his hardness against her and it made her nearly weep. She thought she had lost this, all of this, the bittersweet tangle of emotions. Their return left her breathless.

He felt the change in her at the same time he read it in her eyes. She would come back to him now, come back to them all. And when the time was right, he would lie with her again, this time without barriers, and he would fulfill the desire he saw in her eyes. He made her that promise with kisses, first to her tender lips, and then to her tear-streaked face. When, at last, her tears stopped, he shifted, drawing her against him, so that he could hold and caress her. They shared the warmth of their bodies, and in each others arms, found peace.

They slept curled together, both exhausted by their emotions. Nana came to check on them fearing the worst, and left the room smiling. She had been right about Johnny after all. He was exactly what her Beverly needed. She corrected that. He was exactly what they all needed, just as they were what he needed. And there would be hope and love in the future that even the memory of the Borg would not tarnish.

Taking up her treasured candle, Nana Howard walked through the darkened house smiling. She'd wake them all in time for sunrise tomorrow and they would share the promise of a new day.

Together.

end.

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