Meet you there

"What deck is sickbay on?"
"Pretty sure it's deck five." Their momentum catapulted them into the lift , fortunately swift to open. Each grabbed a handle, slicking it with their sweat but past caring, heartbeats thundering in their heads, their chests, their very fingertips. "Deck five!" Spock called, hoping volume made the thing move faster, bend more quickly to the wills of its occupants. It didn't.
They commandeered the time of a young ensign, convincing him that this was a diplomatic exercise, told him to take them to sickbay. "On the double, if you please, ensign." Kirk's new-found voice of command backed their bluff effectively. "Thank you; dismissed," and Kirk and Spock burst into sickbay, and they found her.
Dr. Caitlin McCoy lay prone on a biobed, eyes watering, hands at her sides, head raised to quaver mournfully, "Nooooo; this is the opposite of what I wanted . . . " She had quickly come to her own conclusions about the nature of their roles here; her office provided more information than was available in Kirk's quarters. When she saw the commanding pair, she sparked with recognition, and vaulted herself off the biobed to them.
"Okay, you guys, what is even happening?! I wake up this morning and my hands are in some weirdo box thing that does surgery, I guess? And I'm supposed to be operating? So when I start to panic, UNDERSTANDABLY, this guy comes in all laughing and says I can go sit in my office, 'Dr. McCoy,' so I do, and now I am Dr. McCoy, and we are on this starship, and I do not know what is happening anymore," Caitlin ended with a huff of aggravation, crossing her arms to prevent finger-wringing of the cruelest sort.
"So, you figured it out, then?" Spock asked, still wheezing but calming rapidly in her relief. Kirk dropped her mantle of authority, relaxed her stance. They were all okay; no one was bleeding or captured or lost in space.
"What, that we're in the show? And that we're supposed to be the characters? I do not like this at all," McCoy replied, shaking her head, grimacing with distaste. "If I wanted anything at all, I wanted to meet them, not BE them, and that's even if I wanted anything like this in the first place. I was supposed to be doing SURGERY. I'm an English major, not a doctor!"
Spock snorted with laughter, elbowed a chortling Kirk, said, "Of course, Bones."
Bones was confused, thought back a moment, then grinned herself. "Oh, haha, whups. Anyway . . . should we all just hang out here, or something? I have a computer and stuff we can use to, I don't know, try to figure this thing out."
"Captain's got a computer in her quarters, too, and we can have some privacy there . . . less surgery?" Spock offered. Kirk nodded vigorously.
"Yes, let's go there so we can talk about this," the captain vocalized her reply and led the other two from sickbay.
"Okay, and can we also just mention how sad this is?" interjected Bones as they paced the long, monochromatic path back to Kirk's quarters. "We are actually on the ship, but we can't even see the people we came here for."
"I know!" wailed Spock, "Janelle and I were literally crying about it before we came for you; it is the saddest thing in the history of things."
Conversation continued in this vein until the captain's door squeaked shut behind them. Each collapsed onto a piece of furniture; Bones in the cold desk chair, Kirk back on the colored, covered bed, and Spock laid out on the floor. They sat in silence for a few moments, breathing circulated air, absorbing the textures of the ship, listening to the hum of the engines.
"But now I have a question," Kirk spoke into the emptiness, words falling oddly flat as they prodded the still air. Bones cocked her head to listen, smoothing down brown bangs caught on her glasses. Spock craned her neck from the ground.
"Yes, captain?"
"If we're here, being them . . . are they somewhere else, being us?