dated to June 30th - late hours

To say that McCoy is beyond exhausted is an understatement. He'd managed to grab about two hours of sleep in the clinic, refusing to leave because Bucky's condition still hadn't improved to the point that he felt comfortable going anywhere. He's got one surgery on his hands and he'd cleaned up one hell of a mess from the couple of trials he had to go through to get to the right one. By the time mid-afternoon rolls around and the patient's sedated, he wants nothing more than to trudge back home and collapse, preferably for a year.

He makes it back home, ignoring the demanding yowls of Plum and only almost hitting him in the head with a shoe. Almost. It's not like he's a bad owner for almost. Shoes off, the shirt's next and he throws it over the couch, barrelling through his door using the weight of his shoulder.

The bed looms in sight like a gorgeous oasis and three steps later, McCoy's completely sacked out on it, facedown in a pillow and already half-snuffling through exhaustion.

Six hours. That's all he needs. Six hours and he'll get right back to it.