The memories were a disorienting flash at first, one after another like a slideshow, only without any real order beyond whichever happened to be at the forefront of Jim's mind. He wasn't expecting Jim to latch on and try to drag him down. Most humans were psi-null. Even if someone understood telepathy, it was highly unlikely they would be able to react or even interact so ardently.

But Jim was reacting, was interacting, and Spock let himself be pulled in until their thoughts joined, merging like two different bodies of water.

The link was there. He could see it, glowing between them, bright and not at all fragile. Tentatively, gently, he plucked at the link and watched the subsequent ripples in awe. How...? Perhaps he had unintentionally left some of himself behind, but that alone wouldn't explain how the link had thrived all on its own, without the aid of himself or a healer.

I, too, have forgotten. You are not alone, Jim.

His own memories flickered around them, more controlled and concise than Jim's had been: He'd curled his fingers in against his palms, nails biting crescent-shaped marks into the soft, vulnerable flesh. He didn't feel the sting of pain, barely even registered that he was sobbing, breaths coming in harsh, ragged pants. His Vulcan heritage had failed him and his human heritage was a tidal wave of chaos, all of his careful controls shredded by the devastation that was Jim's death. Anger trickled through the devastation, tiny pinpricks of misdirected ire. The anger abruptly flared into a focused rage. Khan. Chasing Khan through the streets of London, fueled only by the need for vindication. Dark satisfaction when he broke the augment's arm.

I did not react so strongly even when... Even when his planet had been destroyed and his mother was lost. You compromise me.