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I will respect the privacy of my patients, for their problems are not disclosed to me that the world may know.
There's procedure to the treating of a patient. There are protocols to be followed, there are questions indispensable to be asked, there are things that need to be known. They are adaptable, of course. They'll change, if only slightly, depending on where it's being applied and to which end.
Following those becomes easy after enough practice - for most, it takes at least a year; for Leonard McCoy, it took a month and an eventful New Year's Eve in the ER. Adapting to Starfleet takes a week, at most.
Most especially must I tread with care in matters of life and death. If it is given me to save a life, all thanks. But it may also be within my power to take a life; this awesome responsibility must be faced with great humbleness and awareness of my own frailty.
Dealing with death is something one must have already come to terms with before even joining medical school, Leonard McCoy thought at first. And then he loses his father, and he learns that no one will ever be prepared for death, not if you're sane. But you can learn to prepare yourself for the aftermath. For dealing with the loss of a patient.
Above all, I must not play at God.
No one prepared him for the loss of James T. Kirk.
Above all, I must not play at God.
It was a dig at his own arrogance, at his own levity, at his own willful ignorance. How dare he forget James T. Kirk wasn't immortal? He thought Jim invincible; how he could forget Jim, like himself, like Spock, like every other living being in that starship is as vulnerable to death as any other?
Above all, I must not play at God.
And how could he not take the chance of bringing him back if he has it?
Above all, I must not play at God.
Leonard's thoughts have turned muddy with the cluttering, one thought bleeding into another, until the only discernible thing is his oath.
His oath.
Above all, I must not play at God.
It'd been easy to make it. When he recited the words, nervousness and excitement settling on the bottom of his stomach, he didn't stop to wonder the possible situations in which he could break them. No, he was excited and he wanted to give the best he could offer, wanted to be the best doctor possible.
He didn't try to imagine whether one day he'd have the chance to bring someone back to life, and what his choice would be.
And when Leonard McCoy looks back on that night in which he made a vow as he graduated and moved along into his promising life and career, he thinks about how long it feels since it happened when in truth it hasn't been, not really.
Above all, I must not play at God.
His hands shake and his fingers tremble and he doesn't know if it's from sleep deprivation or sheer need to touch Jim; to brush the hair out of his forehead. He was beautiful even in death, but Leonard knows it doesn't compare to the twinkle in his eye when he teases Leonard for the hundredth time; doesn't compare to the cocky grin that pisses him off, to the warmth of his hands provided by the blood that runs through his veins when Leonard takes them in his, to the unassuming kiss he presses into the corner of Leonard's mouth.
Above all, I must not play at God.
How could he be asked not to bring that light back into the world, if he had the means and the chance?
Above all, I must not play at God.
There’s a lot of things he wouldn’t do, but he’s figured, a long time ago, that there isn't a single thing he wouldn't do for Jim. And breaking such an oath, the most important he’s taken in his hole career, is no exception.