When the storm hit them, he only had one concern: To get to the others. Jim, most of all, of course, but it's not just about him. There's a whole crew with the captain that he also worried about. They were all his responsibility. He was their doctor. He had to get to them to make sure they didn't lose one.

The cloud of dust and sand made it impossible to see, the loud winds made it impossible for him to hear what Spock was saying, but the grip on his arm was unrelenting, refusing to let him go, and dragging him down underneath that damn tarp. He fought it even then, but eventually realized that the Vulcan's grip wasn't something he could get out of.

Then the tarp started sagging with the weight of the sand being piled on top of it and, instead of trying to move away, McCoy shuffled just a little bit closer. Being buried alive wasn't a fear he'd ever even considered...until this very moment when it seemed he wouldn't just die here, but also spend eternity buried next to the most annoying, infuriating being in existence.

Hours later everything is quiet, but it's an eerie sort of silence, not a calm one. It's a dead sort of quiet. One that makes his chest tighten a little. What if...?

"I'm fine," he grumbles as he stands up and dusts himself off, looking around the virgin sea of sand. No trace of anything anywhere. He had been sitting under that tarp the entire time, swearing to himself that, if they got out alive, the first thing he would do would be to punch the Vulcan right in that logical, robotic face of his. Punch him for not letting him go after the others and instead forcing him to hide like some coward, but now he finds he doesn't have the will or the energy.

"We gotta find the others."

That's all that matters now.