Title: One Flew East, One Flew West Author: Danielle Leigh Spoilers: Vague reference to Detour and FAD Time line: Between FAD and The End. Keywords: Mulder/Scully UST, MulderAngst, ScullyAngst Rating: R Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, Skinner, the Gunmen, Krycek, Marita, the WMM all belong to CC and 10-13. Everyone else is mine. Author Notes: This is Part I. Part II is *not* finished so don't read this if you have a thing about unfinished stories. In other words: watch out for the cliffhanger. Two wonderful people helped me turn a vague idea into the story you see here. So heartfelt thanks go to Stephanie, who gave me wonderful critiques on the story and helped me create an actual plot and to *THE* Magnificent Meghan, the best beta-reader a girl could have. Thanks guys, you'll never know how much you helped me. And of course, any mistakes are completely my fault so don't blame these poor innocents. And finally, thank you Anna for helping me pick up the pen again. Feedback: Yes, please. At dleighr@hotmail.com. ******** Part 1/7 disclaimer in Part 1 One Flew East, One Flew West by Danielle Leigh -------------- "But even if it never happened it's the truth." Ken Kesey, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest -------------- Part one They gave him the clothes of the unknown man first. As if by knowing what the man wore, Sam could understand the man himself. They had been cut into shreds by the ER docs and were covered in blood, dirt, and black oil. The nurse gave him the plastic bag containing every thing the man had had on him, two days ago when he had mysteriously appeared, dumped unceremoniously at the ambulance loading bay. Nobody had seen who had dropped him off. "Dr. Doyle, the police still want to examine these for evidence, so be careful." The nurse was young and nervous. She had been there for the strange man's arrival and had been terrified by his anguished, tortured screams. Sam nodded absently, gave her an understanding smile as she left, and turned his attention to the bag. He placed latex gloves on his hands, dumped the contents of the bag on his desk and slowly examined each item carefully, as if they were ancient Mayan artifacts. A ripped, white dress shirt. Obviously expensive. Blood was on the wrists of the shirt and on the collar. A pair of dark grey dress pants. Hugo Boss label. Oil stained the knees of the pants and dirt encrusted the cuffs. A pair of black socks, also stained with dirt and oil. A pair of well worn leather shoes, which unlike the other clothes were very inexpensive looking. A pair of boxers, grey. End of inventory. There was no tie or jacket and no wallet or identification. So, what have I learned, Sam asked himself. The man was obviously some kind of professional, definitely well-paid. Having read the man's initial medical chart from the ER, he knew that only the blood on the shirt sleeves belonged to the man. His wrists had been bleeding, rubbed raw, probably from handcuffs or perhaps rope. Other than suffering from shock and dehydration there had been nothing physically wrong with the man. There must be more. There had to be. Dr. Sam Doyle was looking for a clue. He would need it before he faced his new patient. He got it when placing the items back into the bag--a sunflower casing fell out of the pants pocket. Frowning, Sam picked up the shell and sighed. As openings went it wasn't great. But it might be all he got with this one. ----------- Sam knocked on the John Doe's (or J. D. as the nurses called him) door and waited for a response he knew wouldn't come. After a minute or two he opened the door. The man was sitting on his bed in the corner of the room, reading a book. He had dark hair and a long, tired face. In his hospital pajamas he looked young, but Sam would have guessed him to be in his early thirties. He raised his sharp hazel eyes to appraise Sam for a minute and didn't appear to be impressed. Sam tried to keep the meeting from becoming too rife with hostility and avoided the man's gaze by inspecting the room. "Do you mind if I sit down and talk to you for a few minutes?" It was always good to give them the illusion of some control. The man shrugged. Sam sat down in a chair next to the small, sterile, hospital bed. "I'm Sam Doyle. I'm a doctor at this hospital." "You mean a shrink," the man said, his voice rusty with disuse. It was the first coherent thing he had said since his admittance. Sam knew not to reward this patient for speaking or even mention the two day muteness. "I'm a psychiatrist, yes. I try to help people by talking to them about their problems." "And where did you get the idea I have problems?" he asked, mocking. "Do you want to know what you were screaming in the ER?" The man's face tightened. The answer was obvious; YES, he did want to know, but it was important he ask for the answer. Worked for it. Sam waited, but the man, now christened J. D., refused to ask and turned his face away toward the wall. After a long silence, Sam decided to try a different tack. "You know, I don't even know your name." The man gave him a sideways look. "My friends call me Macduff." Ah. "Is there anyone we can contact for you? Family, friends, coworkers?" "Where am I?" "You're at St. Anne's hospital in Webster, Maryland." The man gave him a blank, guarded look. "You were found just outside the hospital three days ago. You were suffering from shock and when they touched you, you started yelling incoherently. One of the few things they could make out was you yelling 'They're here.' Does that have any meaning for you?" No answer. "You struggled in the ER and managed to give one of the doctors a bloody nose. You seemed to think they were going to hurt you." Again, nothing. "Is there any reason you can think of why you wouldn't trust a doctor?" "Can you give me a reason why I should?" Sam didn't say anything for a moment. Walls, walls, and more walls. "What are you reading?" J. D. frowned and then smiled slowly. It was an amused, condescending smile that reminded Sam of somebody. He showed him the cover. "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest." Why was he not surprised? And where in god's name had he gotten it? "Enjoying it?" "Kind of glance at my probable future, wouldn't you say?" Too damned smart for his own good. "I hope not, J. D." The man looked confused. "That's what the nurses call you," Sam said, by way of explanation. He needed to establish something, anything with this man. He shrugged. "Could be worse." "I want to work with you, but I can't do this alone. You have to put up some, uh, collateral shall we say." "Collateral," J. D. repeated, his eyes amused. And then the amusement faded, something darker seeping in. "When, *Doctor* Doyle, can I get the fuck out of here?" Sam carefully took a folded, somewhat crumpled piece of paper out of his back pocket. "See, this?" "Yeah, so?" "This is a release form that must be signed by me, as the Psychiatric attending of this hospital. And I *will* not sign it until I am confident in your ability to function in the outside world. I also believe that you know this and want my help or you would have spoken two days ago and told the doctors your name and made a plausible excuse for your behavior. You're scared. You're scared about what happened and what you can't remember. You're scared of me and you're scared of leaving. And you're scared you'll never leave." The man's eyes had hardened and become cold. "You know everything, don't you?" Sam suddenly wanted to be home, in bed, away from this hospital and this room and people who needed. He stood up slowly, his back protesting, painfully. "I'd like to begin sessions with you starting tomorrow." A muscle twitched in J. D.'s cheek. "Do I have to stay on the psycho ward?" Sam couldn't help feel relieved. The man would fight him every inch of the way, but in the end he wanted help. "It's not a psycho ward." "My door is locked at night, as are the doors to this ward. To enter one must sign in and out, almost like a *prison*." "J. D.," he said quietly, "if it is a prison, then it is only one of your making." Sam opened the door to small room and stood on the threshold for a long moment. A moment long enough to consider throwing a good career away by making a humane, but stupid decision. And humanity, as it always did for Sam Doyle, won out against bureaucracy and common sense. He unhooked the metal key from the half dozen others and placed it in J. D.'s hand. The other man looked stunned and afraid. He knew the gift the had just been given. "I'll see you in my office tomorrow at ten." ------------- He was aware of light first, followed by a painful cramp in his hand from gripping the key too tightly in his sleep. The realization that had dawned on him every morning for the past three days had become no less shocking or terrifying with time. He remembered *where* he was, but he still didn't know *who* he was. He rolled over in the narrow bed and studied the ceiling, noticing the cracks and water stains in the plaster. The place was falling apart. Getting up, he made his way to the large plastic mirror nailed to the wall. The face that meet him was pale and creased, almost crumpled looking. His hair was wild, standing up on end, cowlicks everywhere, making him look like a small child. The eyes were large, unfocused from sleep and liquid, almost--pale green in color. And that nose. Good god. A dark beard was growing in, but as accommodating as Dr. Doyle had been, he doubted he would be allowed a razor. Turning away from the mirror seemed to be the sanest thing to do. He looked like he belonged here. Just another loony in the bin. The nurse knocked and entered, pushing a cart with covered meals on it. "Hello, J. D." He couldn't answer, still too unnerved by his appearance. She placed his breakfast on a tray next to the bed. "You better eat up. Dr. Doyle doesn't take kindly to his patients being late." Why was this not surprising? Underneath the easy and calm exterior the man (J. D.?) had sensed a relentlessness in the Doctor. He somehow knew Doyle would make him talk. About everything he couldn't remember. About what little he could. "Uh, Nurse..." he glanced at her name tag. "Marie. I was wondering is there another Doctor I could see? Another psychiatrist at the hospital, I mean?" She looked surprised. "Good heavens, Dr. Doyle is the only psychiatrist in the whole town. We're lucky to have him." Lucky. J. D. squeezed his hand around the small key and closed his eyes. The nurse left and he could hear her bright voice greeting the next inmate in this madhouse. Why had Doyle given him the key? Oh, he knew what had motivated Doyle to take such an action, but why had he put so much on the line? Just to gain the trust of a patient? He hated Doyle for the sincerity of the gesture, resented him for being indebted to the man, and felt himself responding to the simple faith the doctor had entrusted him with. And he couldn't help but admire the bastard for his technique. ------------ Sam had been in the office since 6 a.m. reading over medical reports and notes. And looking over J. D.'s test results. The CAT scans showed nothing. If the man did have amnesia it was most likely a psychogenic amnesia brought on by whatever ordeal he had endured before entering the hospital. There was also the possibility of a borderline personality disorder, or even a narcissistic personality. After all, what better way to get attention then show up mysteriously in a small town and neglect to give your name or an explanation for how you got there? But, it didn't fit. Not with this man. He was obviously scared, not just of the situation but whatever might have caused it. The mood swings might be troubling, but in a situation like this not unwarranted. Coupled with the possibility of a minor depression and PTSD, the case in its entirety was troubling. But so far there was no indication of suicidal impulses. *Yet*. What would happen when they started recovering the memories that had led to the amnesia? Sam hoped this man was up to it. Sam hoped *he* was up for it. This was no alcoholic mother or depressed teenager. The blood tests...the blood tests were interesting. The remnants of an unidentifiable toxin had been found. So far nothing concrete had been found to possibly explain the amnesia medically as a result of the toxin. St. Anne's lacked the technology to do in-depth tests and so had sent J. D.'s blood sample to Johns Hopkins. They would get them back in about two weeks. Hopefully, in the end it wouldn't be necessary for treatment. Sam was checking the medical chart again just in case something was missed, when there was a knock on the door. "Come in." J. D. entered, his hair still wet from washing, wearing a pair of worn blue sweatpants and a Redskins t-shirt that had probably belonged to the son of one of the nurses. His eyes were glinting and he looked amused. "Hospital couldn't spring for a secretary, hunh?" he asked, sitting down in the chair in front of Sam's desk. No hesitation, Sam noted. Of any kind. Sam shook his head. "I'm afraid of them. Isn't everyone?" "I must have missed the day they were passing that phobia out in school." Now that he was in the office he wouldn't look at Sam. His body was tense and he was fiddling his thumbs and tapping his foot, an unconscious nervous reaction. "How did you sleep?" "Great. I started to wonder around midnight what might come *into* my room. I mean hell, if you let me loose god knows who else is running around this place." Which in its way was a left-handed thank you, if there ever was such a thing. Sam smiled slightly. Why did he think this man didn't do anything the easy way? "You're welcome." J. D. looked surprised for a moment and then uncomfortable. "Yeah, well," he muttered. Suddenly he couldn't seem to sit still and started wandering around the office. He inspected Sam's diplomas first, something Sam now expected from every visitor, patient and nurse. "Columbia?" Also what everyone asked. Did he look *stupid*? "Yes, for med school." He continued to frown over the diplomas, getting a kick out of the one for Webster High School. Sam was not ashamed to come from a small town, nor was he embarrassed to have come back to it. Still, the reaction of the other man rankled. "You didn't tell me you were the only shr--*psychiatrist* in town," J. D. said casually. "Comparison shopping?" "It's good to know one's options," he said, turning to look at Sam, his eyes measuring. Calculating. "Yes, I think it is. Please sit down." Although J. D. hesitated for a moment, he finally sat in the chair with great reluctance. "Do you remember who you are?" His patient's face gave nothing away, but the very air of the office changed. The room smelled acrid and stale. The very recognizable smell of fear. Sam knew it well. "What do you think?" "I think," Sam said evenly, but not without kindness, "that I can't help you alone. It may sound cliched but *you* have to want to get better. I need you as much as you need me." Sam expected him to deny it, was waiting for it actually. In his mind the next argument, the next plea for cooperation, the next question had already taken place. This game they played, this tug-of-war *was* therapy. "What could have caused this?" Sam exhaled. "Your memory loss is probably a phenomenon called psychogenic amnesia. It's a very rare occurrence when something so traumatic happens that the patient has to block out everything, including memories and identity, to function mentally." His face was pale, but the eyes were bright. "There wasn't anything really wrong with me when I was brought in," he said quickly. "Nothing terribly traumatic could have--" "The trauma I'm speaking of is emotional," Sam cut in quietly. J. D. placed his head in his hands for a long moment. Sam rubbed his eyes and waited. Another minute passed before J. D. raised his head. His eyes were dry. "How can we get my memories back?" END 1/7 ******** -------------- Part two "Agent Scully." She was running on a bridge. It was a familiar bridge; she had been here before. On each side the darkness waited. She couldn't let it get her. She had to escape it, make it to him. She could see his back, he was so close. If she could only move faster she could catch him. The darkness would never get them. Only a few more feet-- "Agent Scully." Abruptly, she opened her eyes. Confused, she looked up from the couch to see Skinner. What was he doing in -- Mulder's apartment? "Sir, I'm sorry," she said quickly, "I must have fallen asleep." She started to stand up, running her fingers through her hair. FBI agents didn't fall asleep when their partner was missing. Mulder wouldn't have slept. Mulder hadn't slept. Horrified, Scully realized she was wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, both of which belonged to Mulder. This looked bad. This looked very bad. Blushing, she quickly went into the bathroom to change. "Excuse me, sir." "Of course," Skinner said, expressionless. She put on the black suit she had worn yesterday. Black was very functional, she thought bitterly. Black for chasing aliens. Black for running from genetic mutants. Black for funerals at Arlington. She held his sweatpants in her hand and found she couldn't leave them here. But she certainly couldn't carry them around in front of Skinner. She would simply come back for them. If Mulder could carry her cross around, she could damn well have a pair of his sweat pants. She splashed water on her face, avoiding looking too carefully in the mirror. She had started avoided them when she had become ill and had simply gotten into the habit of pretending not to see the reflection. The gauntness, the bloodshot eyes, the dark circles. It was easier to pretend all was as it had always been. Scully allowed herself another minute and finally straightened her shoulders and rejoined Skinner. "Have they found anything?" Skinner was standing in the middle of the apartment, his tall frame stiff and tense, looking uncomfortable. "Forensics haven't found anything, Agent Scully. Not in the apartment, not in his car. His gun and badge are missing." He hesitated slightly. "I think you're looking for something that isn't there." She practically felt her face become hot. "So, he just *vanished*. Without a trace. I refuse to believe that, *sir*," she said with just the right amount of stress so it sounded like a curse word. He sat down in one of Mulder's leather chairs, "Please sit down, Agent Scully." She sat on the couch she had slept on, where she had waited with a small child's faith for her partner to return. She had finished the waiting game. For a second before he spoke, she saw Kritschgau's face over his familiar one and the space of a year vanished. "He's done this before, Agent Scully." He said this with a kind of quiet honesty. But it felt like a personal attack on *her*. Can't even keep your partner from ditching you, can you, a voice taunted her from the back of her head. He hasn't ditched me. He wouldn't. He stopped doing that. He respects me. And if she thought it enough, perhaps it would be true. "He's never not told me where he was going or called me to tell me he would be okay." Her voice was stiff and Mulder would have recognized this voice. This manner. It was Scully when she got an idea into her head, when she wouldn't let go of something. It happened so rarely and she was so quiet about it that most never noticed. But they knew enough not to get in her way. Skinner had learned that lesson at gunpoint three years ago. She started for the door. "Agent Scully, you can't do anything..." She turned around, her eyes pure, bright candles. "Something is the only thing I can do." "Where are you going?" A ghost of a smile played across her face. "To get a little help from my friends." ----------- "Come on. Isn't anyone going to let me in?" she said loudly, feeling ridiculous. A series of loud clicks and clangs came from inside the door as what sounded like twenty locks were released. There was a point at which paranoia became a mental illness. Frohike swung the door open, looking pleased as punch to have the FBI agent alone. Glancing around the corner he smiled. "Looks like you've finally gotten rid of that too tall pencil-necked geek you call your partner. I always knew you had good taste, Agent--" "Not now," she said sharply, and pushed past him into the weird, nineties techno version of a clubhouse. Langly was on the phone, talking about a new insecticide that supposedly caused those sprayed with it to develop a *very* interesting reaction. Frohike followed her like a small puppy, although if he was hurt by her brusqueness she couldn't tell. "Where's Byers?" she asked, her voice calmer. Frohike looked at her for a moment. His expression slowly dawned with comprehension. "I'll get him," he said simply. She nodded, suddenly exhausted. "Please, do." Backing away slowly, Frohike left and returned shortly with Byers, both of them silent, their eyes huge. Waiting for the bomb to drop. Frohike tapped Langly on the shoulder, but was ignored. He had to repeat the action two times before he got Langly's attention. "What! I'm on the tel-ee-phone, MEL--" He stopped short, taking in Scully's appearance. Byers nodded at him, his face grave. His face changed subtly, all expression leaving it as he hung the phone up. Very softly. They all looked at her, waiting. Is this how it will be when he dies, she wondered dimly. I don't want to do this ever again. I won't. I can't. I'll just have to handcuff him to me. End of story. Forget privacy and shit like that. We'll adapt. "He's not dead," she blurted, feeling ashamed for causing them to worry so. And angry at him for causing them pain. For causing *her* pain. "But?" Byers asked, his voice soft. "I don't know. He's been missing for ten days. He's never been gone that long." They exchanged glances and she felt strangely lonely. She and Mulder had that kind of shorthand, that kind of secret language. Only her connection with Charlie as a child had come even close to the kind of Mulder-speak she had found in their partnership. But she and Charlie had lost theirs to adulthood. So far not heaven or Earth, God or the Devil, Skinner or the military, talking dolls or killer trees had come between her and Mulder's tie to each other. No, why should they when Mulder himself could do that for them? Damn him, she thought. Damn him. "What were you working on?" Langley asked. She shook her head. "It was just, you know 'The Monster of the Week'. Nothing, uh, conspiracy based." "Do you have anything to go on?" She shook her head slowly, but stopped. "Yeah," she whispered, her eyes widening. "I think I do." ----------- In the end, after two very unproductive arguments and seven games of rock/paper/scissors, it was decided John Fitzgerald Byers would accompany Scully to New York. The other two sulked and shot envious glances at Byers. And worried looks at Scully, who was making arrangements to fly out of Dulles. See, they hadn't told her yet that Byers *would* be accompanying Scully to New York. "Okay, the seven thirty is fine. Let me give you my credit card number--" The Lone Gun Men exchanged glances. Giving a credit card number over the *phone*? Hadn't Mulder taught her anything? "Uh, Agent Scully," Byers said, uncomfortably. He sat across from her and waited. She frowned and raised one reddish-gold eyebrow. "Excuse me," she said, and covered the phone with her hand. "Is this important?" she asked Byers. He looked at her. She looked back. Their gazes locked and for a long moment the rest of the universe receded. She sighed and raised the telephone up to her lips, "Look, can I call you back in a minute? Thanks." Frohike and Langly looked at each other shocked. *Byers* had won a staring contest with Agent Dana Scully? "Is this important, because--" "I'm going with you," Byers interrupted, his voice low. Scully smiled. It was very sweet and these guys were the greatest, but there was no way in hell she was taking him to that *Barracuda's* cave. She'd eat him alive. He'd be dessert and Scully was beginning to think Mulder had been the main course. "Look I know you all must be worried, but really these things kind of happen on the X-files,"-- yeah, your partner gets his ass roasted in the fire and you've gotta pull it out before the Mulder-ka-bobs are ready-- "Where has doing these things alone, ever gotten you and Mulder?" he shot back, almost--accusing. "How many *resurrections* are there going to be, Agent Scully?" She didn't know what to say, feeling the dark flush of shame across her chest and neck. The other two watched, eyes wide with amazement and fear. "I, uh, I can't let you go," she whispered. He frowned, practically radiating disapproval like body heat. "Don't you see, isn't it bad enough I have to--" She stopped short, her eyes large and dark. Byers leaned forward, his eyes blue-white flames. "It's what friends do, Scully." "You shouldn't have to--" How could she explain it? Another innocent led to the slaughter was something she simply couldn't have on her conscience. She had learned from Mulder. The guilt he was so familiar with, so at *ease* with...she would simply buckle under its weight. He had a lifetime to get used it; she had only had a few short years. "CHRIST, lady, didn't you ever see the Star Wars Trilogy?!" Everyone in the room jumped, shocked by Langly's outburst. "I mean, jeez. Mulder could be frozen in a carbon box, right now!" Scully and Byers looked at each other and started laughing, hysterically. After a minute of fascinated silence, Frohike and Langly joined in. The laughter continued unabated for almost a full three minutes. "Oh god," she managed, gasping, wiping her eyes. Langly looked slightly sheepish, although truly proud he had done something even the great Mulder had only managed once. He had gotten Scully to laugh like a young girl. She smiled at him and turned back at Byers. What the hell. "You ready to go, young Skywalker?" He blinked. "Um, yeah. Yeah." END 2/7 ******* Part Three "You must hate me." Sam smiled and placed his hands in his blazer pockets. He was leaning against the door frame while J. D. was sitting on his bed, staring at his hands. It was late, almost midnight. The rest of the hospital was silent and still. The only lights on were the ones at the nurses station and a small lamp in J. D.'s room, probably a gift from Marie. "You don't really think that, do you?" he asked. "I was awful." He raised his eyes and stared at Sam. "I said a lot of stupid things." Sam didn't say anything. It had been a particularly harrowing session this morning. Five days had passed since J. D.'s arrival at the hospital and the two were no closer to the truth than they had been. J. D.'s feelings of anger and fear about his situation were justified, but he had a tendency to lash out at the nearest person when cornered. And Sam, as always, was the person to get the brunt of his patient's frustrations. "I think we just caught each other at a bad time." "Don't you ever get mad?" "Excuse me?" "You know, I was perfect asshole today," J. D. continued, his voice level, "but you just let it slide. Why don't you just tell me what a jerk I was or yell at me or something?" "You know a part of the therapist's job is to be a kind of...target for the patient's emotions. Anger. We can't take it personally." J. D. nodded, but he obviously didn't buy it. "So, that means everyone can just treat you like shit." Sam frowned at him, surprised to feel his hands clenching into fists in his pockets. "Were you really angry at me today?" His patient looked at him blankly. "No. I guess I resent you a little, but that's about as far as it goes." "So, what would be the point of getting mad at you, for being justifiably upset?" J. D. opened his mouth and closed it and opened it again. He looks like a fish, Sam thought with some amusement and felt himself relax slightly. He glanced at Sam, sheepish. "I'm doing it again, aren't I?" he asked, conversationally. "Yes," Sam said quietly. "I think it's almost like a reflex action. Your way of pushing me far enough away so not only *can't* I help you, but I won't *want* to help you. I have news for you, though; it isn't going to work. I've played with the best of the best at this game." He sat in the chair next to the bed and caught J. D.'s eye. "I know how painful this is. I know how scary it is. I'll be honest and say it'll probably get worse." "What if...what if it doesn't come back?" His eyes were wide and wet and Sam felt his chest constrict slightly. "It will with time." And perhaps believing it would help J. D. believe it also. "What are you really afraid of?" J. D. looked at him. "Everything, what else?" Sam smiled and squeezed his shoulder. As he was leaving, J. D. asked, "What about hypnosis?" Sam stopped abruptly and turned to face him. "Where did you get that idea?" J. D. shrugged. "Uh, well," --careful here, Sam. "I would only use it as a last resort." "Why?" "Because of its instability as a tool of therapy. It can often be misleading and can confuse the issues even more than they already are." J. D. looked at him with one raised eyebrow. His expression said, 'Yeah, okay. Give me the *real* reason.' Sam sighed. "It could be more painful because the memories retrieved are distorted and could prove false. It's always better to try to gain your memories consciously; this way you can be positive that what you remember...is actually what you remember. And no matter how careful he is the therapist always influences the memories, in ways we can't even comprehend. The power of suggestion is unbelievably influential when it comes to memory and hypnosis. You -- a patient -- may want to please their therapist so badly that they may make up things. Frankly, I think it's better we continue trying to get your memory back without using hypnosis." "Is that it then? The decision is made?" Sam considered his patient's appearance for a long moment. His face was pale, his eyes bloodshot and distant. He had lost weight, enough so that his clothes hung on him. It was doing him no good to sit here and wait for his identity to come back to him from the sky. "I want you to give me a few more days. If we haven't made any progress by then I'll consider hypnosis." J. D. nodded and Sam turned to leave again before he remembered something. "Oh, here. I got these for you," he said, handing J. D. a bag of sunflower seeds. J. D. studied them, confused. "Sunflower seeds," he said. Sam smiled mysteriously. "Oh, you know. For a snack or something. Sleep well. I'll see you tomorrow." When he left he couldn't help notice J. D. was still staring at the bag, as if the mysteries of the universe were contained within it. Perhaps they were. ----------- It was four a.m. when the phone rang. Dazed and hot, Sam woke with a start and kicked off the covers. //It was news about Patrick...his mother...on the phone...// But when he opened his eyes he saw the dark blue walls and the large window overlooking the back yard. It wasn't the room he had grown up in. It was the room his parents had shared for almost thirty years. And the phone call wasn't from his mother. Sam let it ring twice more before he picked it up. "Doyle." "Sam, it's Alicia. You've got to get down here *now*." Her voice was sharp, knifelike, cutting through the gauze layer of Sam's memories. He sat up, feeling his pulse quicken and a bead of sweat roll down his chest. "What's happened?" "Your newest patient. He's screaming for you. I think he's having one of those waking nightmares. He's going to hurt himself, if he goes on like this." "I will be right there." No rest for the haunted. ---------- When he arrived on the ward, J. D. was curled up into a small ball, rocking slightly. Under the bed. Scattered all over the floor were sunflower seeds and shreds of glass. The small reading lamp was destroyed on the floor. "Sam," he was whispering hoarsely. "Saaaammmmm." His voice was broken and cracked. "I'm here," Sam said. "I'm here." Alicia watched with wide eyes from the door as Sam kneeled in front of the bed. "Please," he said. "Please come out. Everything's going to be okay. I promise." "I don't want to go. I don't want to be taken." His voice was so childlike, Sam felt tears sting his eyes. "No one will take you. Nothing is going to happen." In the long silence that followed Sam prayed. Please, god. I don't want this to happen again. He's not delusional, it's just a nightmare. Tomorrow he'll be just as annoying and frustrating as he was today. "Oh god," he heard J. D. say raggedly. In a voice as old as the world. Slowly, he eased his way out from under the bed. A large, ugly red mark ran from his left cheek to his chin and a gash over his eyebrow dripped with blood. Why? Sam wondered. What did they do to you? Why did you hurt yourself? The eyes were wild and unnaturally bright. But not insane. "I woke up and everyone was gone," he managed, his voice hitching the way small children's would after a crying jag. "Everyone was gone. I was the only one left." Sam touched his shoulders, carefully, the way one would pet a deer for fear it would bolt. "We're here. You're not alone." "You promise?" Sam nodded, solemnly. "I swear to god." J. D. gazed into his eyes, seeing something visible only to him. He then appeared to decide something, for he relaxed and slumped into Sam's arms. Sam nodded at Alicia and she left, moving quickly. In his arms, J. D. shook and he could feel his ribs, sharply pronounced, underneath the flimsy pajama top. He heard J. D. emit a sound, a horrible, dry painful noise, that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "I thought--I thought I was the only person left on earth." Which was more revealing than a thousand hypnosis sessions could ever be. Alicia returned with what Sam knew would be a small blue pill and a glass of water. "Listen," he said, pulling back and rasing J. D.'s chin so he could look him the eye. "I want to take this pill for me so you can sleep. Okay?" He nodded tiredly. "Okay." Good. No needles necessary. One less horror tonight. Patrick had hated needles. He used to scream bloody murder when the nurses approached him. Security would sometimes have to come and hold him down. Sam had been the only one able to calm him, after their mother had died. Alicia gave him the pill and helped him back onto the bed. Sam nodded at her and she followed him to the hall. "Please clean up the glass and the seeds. Make sure there are none left. This is *very* important." "Of course." She hesitated. "Sam, what is going on? He was perfectly fine before..." "It's my fault. I gave him the seeds to help trigger his memory. I was stupid. I didn't think they would cause such a violent reaction." "Sam, you couldn't have foreseen..." "Please, Alicia," he said sharply. "I want to get those things out of his room as soon as possible. It could be anything from the smell to the taste that's done this to him." Her cheeks burned. "Of course, *Doctor*." She left, walking quickly down the hall to get the dustpan and broom. Oh hell. Too tired to fix her hurt feelings, too tired to think, he just left the ward and escaped to his office. ---------- He was sitting in his office around nine a.m., thinking about nothing, when there was a knock on the door. For a second all he wanted was to barricade himself in here, this sanctuary he had created, and never leave. "Come in." And leave quickly, please. The door opened and Sam was surprised by a man he had never seen before. "Dr. Doyle," he said, smoothly. "I'm Doctor Hunt...from Johns Hopkins." He was youngish, wearing an impeccable dark suit. His dark hair was slicked back and his eyes were bright green. They were feral and animal-like, perhaps belonging to a hawk, measuring Sam and the office in a matter of seconds. When he stuck his hand out straight to shake, Sam was reminded of a boy scout. A sleazy boy scout. He shook the other man's slightly damp hand and wondered what the hell was going on. "I'm here about the test results...." Test results, Sam thought. Test results.... "Oh, yes! Please sit down..." No way some tech head dresses like this. Or that they would *personally* deliver said test results. There was good service and then there was *good* service. He noticed the man giving him an amused, condescending once over. He frowned. And realized why. He was still wearing his pajamas (dark blue, for future reference) with a wool blazer over them. He flushed, feeling like he had just committed a junior high school social faux pas. "I, uh, was called in the middle of the night for a patient." "Oh," the other man said, giving him a delicate smile. Okay, there it was. Sam now officially hated his son of a bitch. It was a totally instinctual reaction, without any basis in facts or evidence. But he had created a career based on his ability to read people and this guy was...not real. "Would that be the same man the blood came from?" This was getting weird. *Weirder*. Sam smiled. "You know I can't discuss my patients." Dr. Hunt smiled back. It didn't get anywhere near his eyes. "Of course. I'm sorry, I don't know what I was thinking." Right. "So, what have the tests shown?" "Actually, nothing yet. The results so far have been inconclusive. We're thinking perhaps this is a new strain of virus. Perhaps even a retro virus." He said the last with flourish, obviously expecting Sam to leap at the possibility of scientific achievement. Unfortunately for him, Sam was not in love with science or the idea of immortalizing his name in the ages. Science was the means to a goal for Sam Doyle, a method for helping people. If he thought voodoo would help people become more mentally sound he'd get on the first damn plane to Haiti and surrender himself to the nearest shaman. "You all must be very excited." "Well," Hunt said, dipping his shoulders in a show of fake modesty. "It remains to be proven. Actually the reason I'm here is to find out about the person who gave the blood for these samples. We have to know his medical history to determine where he might have become infected with the virus." This felt bad. This felt wrong somehow. "I'll have to discuss this with the patient, of course." "Of course," Hunt said, showing his teeth in a parody of a smile. "Here's my card--" he said, reaching into his suit pocket when there was a knock on the door. His body froze, his hand still in midair, when J. D. walked into the room. "I'm sorry about last night--" J. D. stopped when he noticed the man in his usual chair. "Excuse me, I didn't see you there..." Hunt's face was ashen as he turned to look at J. D. He quickly palmed the card he had almost given Sam, placing it back in his pocket. The room suddenly became tight with pressure. The two men, J. D. and Hunt stared at each other. J. D.'s hazel eyes were dim, his mind absent, having followed some illusive train of thought somewhere beyond the confines of the room. Hunt, on the other hand, was all too aware of his surroundings and the other man. "I know you. Don't I?" J. D.'s voice was distant and thoughtful. Hunt jumped slightly. "I don't think so. You must mistaken. Excuse me, I have to make a phone call," he said to Sam. He left avoiding the other man's eyes, looking somewhat shaken. J. D. touched the other man's sleeve as he passed him. "Nice suit." Hunt stopped, his body tight and tense. Their eyes locked and a weight seemed to fall on Hunt's shoulders. Sam watched, fascinated. It was almost like watching some kind of reunion. "Thanks," he said, a strange gently amused smile floating across his face. And then he was gone, J. D.'s eyes still tracking the path Hunt had taken when leaving the room. Sam did the smart thing. He called security. After a half an hour and four calls to Hopkins a consensus was reached. Doctor Hunt did not exist. END 3/7 ****** Part Four It took Byers almost twenty minutes after take off to figure something out that even Mulder would have noticed in five minutes. Dana Scully was afraid of flying. Her hands that gripped the seats were white, her shoulders tense and she was staring blankly at the back of the seat in front of her. Any idiot could have figured it out. So, she didn't gasp with each dip of the plane or tremble during take off. She was Scully. He wouldn't have expected her to. "You're afraid of flying," he stated. He had learned a long time ago that admitting fear was the easiest way to rule over it. She looked at him sideways, her body not moving. "Yes." "I'm sure someone has Dramamine," he offered. "We could just ask the--" "It's not airsickness," she said with a soft smile. "It's--It's...science." "Excuse me?" This was a new one. She paused, thinking. He noticed the set of her neck and shoulders relax slightly. "I've seen the rules of physics broken, bent, or mutated so many times in my work. Working in the X-files. It just kind of changes -- one's perspective." "Have you ever told Mulder this?" "My god, no. I'd never hear the end of it," she said, rolling her eyes, imagining her partner's reaction. "But does he know you're afraid of flying?" "Of course, Byers." Her voice was taut, annoyed. Why does this bother me so much, he wondered. Don't we all have faults? Fears? God knows Mulder has both. But...somehow it was expected from Mulder. Weakness. Or perhaps he was simply not as afraid of admitting weaknesses. To himself or others. Scully just didn't happen to wear her heart on her sleeve. "So, uh, how do you usually deal with it?" "Mulder distracts me," she said without thinking about it. Oh? "Oh?" Scully blushed slightly when she realized what she had said. "I didn't mean it that way," she said, laughing a little. "Usually he flirts with the flight attendant." Byers blinked rapidly. Sometimes there were things he shouldn't know. She saw his reaction and started laughing again. "Okay," she said, leaning in close, her voice confidential. "See that flight attendant?" She nodded over to the lovely dark haired woman serving drinks to the passengers. "If Mulder were here she would have already given him a free coke, fresh fruit, her phone number and maybe, like, five packages of honey roasted peanuts." Byers frowned. "It doesn't bother you?" "Well, let's just say I'm either so amused or mad, being on a plane takes a backseat." "He only does it on a plane?" "You are correct, sir," she said her voice pleased. After a minute she added, quietly, "Sweet man." Yes, Byers was beginning to see that. "Uh, what if it's a male flight attendant?" She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. "I don't think you want to know," she said, her voice choked with suppressed amusement. His mouth opened slightly and then snapped shut. "Oh," he managed weakly. "Mulder must really like you." She grinned. "You have no idea." ----------- After paying for the cab, Byers reached out for Scully's hand. Uncertain, she looked up from the painful plastic seat to see him smiling at her and placed her hand in his and let him help her out of the car. He closed the door firmly and led her to the curb, his arm locked loosely around hers. If it had been Mulder the gesture would have felt faintly mocking, tinged with condescension. With Byers it was pure sincerity. "Thank you," she mumbled. Only five years and she had lost every social grace her mother had fought long and hard to imprint on the youngest Scully girl. Byers didn't answer; he just frowned at the shadowy brick building. "Mulder trusts her?" He nodded toward the building. "Mr. Mulder doesn't trust anybody." The voice was as vast and cold as the arctic, its accent distinguished and confident. She whirled around to face the older gentlemen, his doughy face pale under the street light. His pale, watery blue eyes were watchful. Of her. "Hello again, young lady." Byers watched the man calmly, his own eyes guarded. Scully bit the inside of her cheek *hard*, to keep herself in check. Temper, Dana Katherine. Temper, she heard her father say. Keep your head while everybody else is losing theirs. Except everyone else seemed to be in control. It was a fucking tea party here. "Where is he?" Start with the basics. Always. Even if Mulder would have given this guy a ride around the block already, she didn't think like Mulder. Some ridiculously nebulous speech which might contain one or two half-intelligent scraps wouldn't give her the same insight Mulder always seemed able to scrap from the lies these men wove. For her searches had a beginning, middle and end. God, she hoped this one had an end. "He's safe. Can you accept that, Miss Scully?" She dug her fingernails into her palm. "I don't know. We might have different definitions of *safe*." He smiled slightly. "By searching for him you may be putting yourself in danger." He paused, letting the obvious sink in. "He'll be okay, but you might get in the way of these men. These men have plans. Plans that can tolerate no interference." He'll be okay, she thought. He'll be okay. He will be okay. He *will* -- "He needs my help," she whispered, lost for a second. Her shoulders seemed to cave in on themselves and her large eyes turned toward the dirty and cracked pavement of Manhattan. Byers looked worried, his hands wrapping around her slim wrist, turning to frown darkly at the old gentlemen. He looked at them with something akin to compassion. "Agent Scully, he is needed for the future. Perhaps your worry is misplaced." And he nodded at them, weaving his way down the street in darkness. Byers looked at the old man and then back to Scully, who was standing utterly still. "Agent Scully, we can catch him." She shook her head dully. "He said what he wanted to say." "But--" "No," she said firmly. "He didn't have to warn me or even try to reassure me, although he did. I have a bad feeling he might be one of the men keeping Mulder alive." Byers thought about that. "You mean...for the future?" "Yeah," she said, her smile sad. "For the future." She closed her eyes. All of a sudden she had the sudden urge to simply lie down on the filthy concrete and sleep. Rest. Byers gave her a minute of respectful silence. When she opened her eyes, they were surprisingly bright. "Come on. We should find out what she has to say." ----------- By the time they reached the apartment of Marita Covarrubias, Byers asked the obvious. "How do you know she's involved?" Scully who had been about to knock on the door, turned to look at him, her expression tight. "Two days before he--disappeared I walked in on the tail end of a phone conversation at the office." Her voice was flat, with no inflection of any kind. They could have been discussing taxes. "He told you who it was?" "No. I could tell by the guilty look he gave me and way he was --" she gestured around, indicating the way Mulder could be when he had a new idea in his head. "--Couldn't sit still. He's only like that when he's got a lead on something. And I could tell it was big...I don't think I've seem him like that since..." "Since when?" "Since we found the black rock and discovered what it could indicate for the existence of extraterrestrial life on this planet." She paused, giving him a hard look. "I think we all remember what happened that time." Well, Mulder was MIA for almost a week and Scully was jailed for contempt of Congress. All in all not a very successful outing. Byers realized he was disturbed by one of Scully's reasons for knowing it was Mulder's informant on the phone. "Guilty look?" Scully smiled, although there was no humor in it. "You'll understand when you see her." 'Oh' seemed to be written over Byers's face. Right, she thought. Oh. She knocked on the door and they waited in the dim hallway. When after a minute or two there was no answer, Scully took out a small metal device out of her trenchcoat pocket. "What --" "One of Mulder's toys," she answered, using it to open the locked door. "Nifty. I think Frohike has one of those." "Yeah," she said. "It's really -- *nifty*." He flushed. "In fact it's almost -- keen." "Shut up," he said pleasantly. She grinned and opened the door, bowing and ushering him through the doorway. It wasn't his fault he had grown up in the Midwest. They both stopped in the foyer, shocked by the utter elegance of the furnishings of the apartment. "Wow," Byers said. Wow was perhaps the most pale and colorless word used when describing the apartment, but somehow the place was just very -- wow. In fact, the place was 'wow' in spades. Scully laughed suddenly and Byers turned toward her. "Look at this place," she managed, her voice shaking. She flipped on the lights, gesturing at the crystal vases (probably Waterford, she could hear her mother whispering), the spectacular impressionist paintings on the wall, the Persian rugs, and the antique furniture. "Oh, thank god!" Byers wondered how Mulder kept up with this woman's thought processes. He felt as if he was trying to catch up with a marathon runner on crutches. "No way has Mulder spent the night in a place like this," she continued, sounding absurdly relieved. "I mean he'd break *everything*. Him and that damn basketball of his. I learned my lesson a long time ago. He only gets the plastic cups from McDonalds when he comes over." "He, uh, broke your glasses?" Scully nodded, her face still cheerful, as she was inspecting the living room for stains of any kind and finding none. "And some of my grandmother's good china, ruined two of the rugs my mother bought me after I graduated from med school, destroyed about ten CDS by spilling soda all over them, not to mention *decimated* a glass vase we've had in our family for over a hundred years." How was it that whenever one described Mulder he sounded like a really *big* kid? A tall, absurdly precocious, charming child? Scully was now actually *turning* sofa cushions over looking for any imperfections. Byers inspected the room more carefully. "You notice how impersonal this room is?" he asked. Scully glanced up at him, as she was on her hands and knees inspecting under the sofa. She frowned and looked around. "No pictures," she agreed, standing up. "No personal effects. Year books, letters, magazines. Nothing." The air felt stale somehow, fake. The room smelled--plastic. They looked at each other. "I'll call Langly. There must be another apartment." She nodded, her face falling. As he left to use the phone (fuck a secured line; time was of the essence) she thought about the fact that this was the address she had gotten Mulder, almost a year and a half ago. So...Mulder would only know this apartment. And there was no way in hell her partner, Fox 'You break it, you bought it' Mulder had spent a night in this museum. Somewhat comforted by that last thought, Scully happily joined Byers in the kitchen to find out the latest information from the boys. END 4/7 ******* Part Five "The dream," J. D. stated flatly. Sam rubbed his eyes and looked out the window to his office. He could see Jeff, the grounds keeper, cutting the grass on an old power mower Sam's family had donated to the hospital almost fifteen years ago. And looked back at J. D., who now had a large bruise on his cheek and a small white bandage on his forehead. Judging from the work, Sam guessed it had been Alicia who had stitched up the wound. His patient smiled angrily. "Aren't you going to ask? Come on, Doyle, this is prime fodder for the New England Journal of Medicine. Hell, you could probably even take this one to the New Yorker. Not to mention a book. 'The Invisible Man Returns'. Quite a testament to the power of olfactory memory. Hell, who knows where you'll go from here." Sam blinked. "I'm sorry, I kind of drifted. What were you saying?" J. D. gazed at him, his expression slightly shocked. Then he laughed, a loud happy sound. Sam felt the heat in his cheeks and grinned slightly himself. J. D.'s embarrassment over being vulnerable, over losing control would fade away soon, as eventually the memory of the nightmare itself would also. His patient shook his head. "I guess I'm getting predictable." "Communication through insults." Now he looked uneasy. "Does that say...something bad about me?" "We all have defense mechanisms, ways to keep people away. Apparently you've perfected yours." "What's yours?" Sam didn't say anything, instead staring up at the ceiling. He couldn't help notice a large water mark in the shape of Lincoln. "So, basically this is a one-way street. I have to bare my soul to you and you get to act like Moses on the mountain." The internal battle he felt was nothing new to Sam. One of his old teachers had once said that if you didn't fight yourself over how to treat your patient then you weren't doing your job as a therapist. In a way the uncertainty was both a relief and a curse. "I think I...kind of retreat inside myself when I don't want to face something." Shrewdly, the younger man frowned at him. "How has this affected your life?" Sam clenched his right hand and then his left. In his head he could hear his mother's voice, comforting him after a fight with his father: //You have to give a little, to get a little.// "I...it's damaged relationships that could have been...mended had I worked harder at them. Instead, I let a lot of good people go because I didn't know how to..." "Reach them." J. D. finished his sentence, his eyes understanding. Letting his patient play therapist was probably a bad idea. "No," Sam said quietly. "I didn't know how to reach myself." They sat in silence, digesting that for a long moment. J. D. was neither arrogant nor mean-spirited enough to feel any pleasure at uncovering weakness in Sam. Instead he looked lost. "I do believe the dream is important, because it could help us unravel who you *are*." His patient almost looked *relieved* as they were moving away from Sam's personal territory. "Where were you in the dream?" I can help you, you just have to trust me, was the message Sam tried to convey with his eyes, his posture, his voice. As if J. D. could read his thoughts he nodded. "Okay, 'Let the healing begin,' " J. D. quoted wryly and then realized he didn't know *where* he was quoting from. It was terrifying to have no knowledge of...knowledge. He closed his eyes, thinking. "I was in a small room...the bed was so small for me...my legs hung over the end. But I was also on a couch...at the same time. I was two places at once." "Was it night or day?" "Um, definitely night. I remember the shadows on the wall." "And did you smell anything?" J. D. frowned, his eyes still closed. "I, uh, I could smell the salt from the seeds. And something smoky..." "Was there someone there in your dream? You said you didn't want to be taken." "I was alone...but I wasn't. Someone was watching me...I could feel them." Them? "Were you afraid?" J. D.'s eyes popped open. "It's weird, but I wasn't until I woke up and I thought I was alone. It was like...I wanted to go with them...and I didn't. I felt...like I should be with them. I didn't want to though. I mean...just before I woke up I was...happy. Euphoric, almost." "Why was that?" "I was still alive. But then when I woke up..." He trailed off looking at Sam, utterly uncertain. "You felt guilty because you hadn't been taken." "Yes. Yes, I think so." "Do you remember who had been taken?" J. D. shrugged unhappily. "I think I almost remember but then it...slips away." "Is there anything else you feel was important about the dream? Maybe something you felt was urgent?" "I felt...urgent. I mean I felt like I had something to do. Or find. When I woke up I remember wanting somebody...I couldn't remember who." Sam felt his body tense. "Do you remember calling for me?" "No, did I?" He looked surprised. "When I first arrived you called out the name 'Sam'." "Actually, I just think of you as Doyle." Sam was unhappy to learn he found that disconcerting. It was hard to remember he was no longer fifteen. Not that he usually tried very hard to remember. Fifteen had been a good time for him. "What associations do you have with the name? How do you see a 'Sam'?" "None that I can think of." They looked at each other across the desk. "You look exhausted. Maybe you should go home." Sam frowned. "I think we should continue," he said stiffly. J. D. exhaled and appeared to count to ten before he said, "That wasn't me being *defensive*, that was *concern*, Doyle." "Thank you, but I'm fine. I think we need to address the man who was here earlier." "Did security find anything?" "Only that he managed to steal your medical records from the nurses station." To Sam's surprise J. D. grinned. "Marie is such a sucker for a little charm. If it had been Alicia there she would have cut off his balls and handed them to him *while* doing paperwork *and* filling meds *and* doing her nails." Sam grinned. That was Alicia all right. To a T. "You knew him." Now, J. D. looked uncomfortable. "I thought I did. I think I do?" "Did any memories or emotions surface when you saw him? Any associations?" He seemed to think that over. "His clothes seemed wrong...out of place somehow. I, uh, the way he looked at me. It seemed familiar." "How so?" He shook his head, turning his face away. "I don't know." Then he turned to face Sam. "Actually the other night I had a dream..." He looked almost timid. "Do you want to tell me about it?" Because obviously he did. Although it was hard to tell because of the dark beard growth on his face, Sam could have sworn the younger man was blushing. "It wasn't a nightmare or anything...it was just nice." "Tell me about it." Oh, well if it's an *order*, Sam could practically hear him thinking. "I was in someone's arms. A woman's arms. It was cold...we were outside...but I don't know. I didn't *feel* cold. It felt...*safe*." "Do you remember anything about her?" J. D. smiled faintly. "No, just that she held me." "What about where the dream took place?" "Um, I think we were on grass. I remember that. Everything surrounding us was dark. We were the only light." We were the only light, Sam thought. Interesting choice of words. "Do you think it's important?" J. D. asked. Yes. Sam thought it might be everything. ---------- He found Alicia drinking coffee in the break room with Jenny, a young ER nurse, getting ready for the night shift. "Jenny, would you excuse us for a minute?" Jenny just flashed Sam a smile, revealing a row of perfectly even, white teeth. If Sam remembered correctly she had been the Prom Queen at Webster High her senior year ten years ago. As Alicia had also been ten years before her. She winked at Alicia on the way out and Sam blushed. He forgot sometimes he was still seen as a 'good catch' by the nurses at the hospital. Forty-two wasn't yet seen as too old, apparently. Alicia for her part continued reading her Baltimore Sun, ignoring Sam as he slid into the seat across from her. "I'm sorry." It was best to get that out of the way before too much time had passed. In his youth Sam had often been too prideful (and stubborn) to apologize. To anyone. It had cost him dearly over the course of his childhood. She looked up from her paper, her sharp blue eyes focused on him. "Oh?" "I was worried about the patient and angry at myself. I took it out on you and I apologize." She returned to her paper. "Apology accepted." Right. "Alicia," he managed feeling as though he had no energy for this. He saved himself for his patients. She knew that. He didn't have the space for anybody else in his life. Certainly not someone who took as much effort as she did. "How much does a video recorder cost?" She blinked at him owlishly. "I don't know...a thousand dollars, I guess. Why?" "I think I'm going to need one for J. D." Looking mystified, she put down her paper and asked, "Why would you need one for him?" Hesitantly, but honestly wanting to hear her thoughts he said, "For hypnosis. I want to try to recover his memory using that method. And I don't want to do it without being able to record it for him, so he can see it afterwards." "Sam, you're never going to get this hospital to pay for something like that. I mean have you seen the budget lately? It's a miracle we even have the machines we do." "I'll buy it myself." "Don't be ridiculous," Alicia snapped crossly. "All of your family's money is gone; it was used to pay for all of Pat's medical and therapy expenses and your father's hospital bills. All of *your* salary goes straight to that *house* which you can't afford and should have sold a long time ago. In a year or two the bank will take it away from you and you know it." He knew there was a reason he hated small towns. Sam stood up, his expression blank, and she looked horrified. "Sam, please. I'm sorry...this was none of my business." "I couldn't sell my parents house, Alicia." His voice was low but definite. She looked miserable. "I know," she whispered. "And frankly when I'm this much in debt a thousand dollars isn't going to make a fuck all amount of difference in the long run." He nodded shortly at her and walked quickly down the hall. He had almost made it to the elevator when he heard her calling his name. He watched her run down the hall to catch him, the long lithe figure he had watched at numerous track meets, blond hair glowing in the sun, always by Patrick's side. He remembered the first time he had met her, his little brother's girl, introduced with quiet pride by Pat. Sam had been a senior in high school and he remembered the way Patrick had looked at him, a tentative freshman gazing with adoration at his older brother. Which was essentially why he avoided Alicia as much as possible. When she caught up to him he noticed that she was still as beautiful as she had always been, untouched by time. Her eyes were filled with unshed tears and with out bothering to think about it she hugged him fiercely, her slim arms wrapping around his neck. He swallowed audibly and closed his eyes, too self-conscious to hug her back. "I'm sorry, Sam." He didn't say anything, just stood there and was held by her for a long moment. Finally, he cleared his throat. "It's okay, Alicia. I think I play 'lets pretend' too much. I'm about due for a wake up call." She released him and touched his cheek, staring intently up into his eyes. "That's not why I was so stupid. I just...I see you killing yourself for your patients, Sam. I just want you to think about yourself once in a while." He bobbed his head, nodding automatically. Alicia stepped back and wiped her eyes angrily. He smiled at that. She had always been the kind of girl that had hated to display any kind of 'girly-girl' weakness. She had not cried at Pat's funeral, instead she had stood erect and still, her face gleaming white marble, her eyes dry. "Um, you look exhausted." Sam laughed lightly. "I am exhausted." She smiled warmly at him. "So go home. I should--" she gestured down the hall, "--get back. My shift is going to start in five minutes. Sleep well, okay?" And she kissed him on the cheek. Very gently. Sam's eyes followed her down the hall, her back upright and her pace dignified without being prissy. It was the walk of someone who knew she was being watched and approved. END 5/7 ******* Part Six "Uh, you sure you know how to work this?" Sam frowned at Jeff defensively. "I'm sure I can figure it out." The grounds keeper raised an eyebrow and smiled laconically. "If you say so, Doc. Though it ain't as easy as it looks." The both glanced at the numerous cables and cords associated with the video recorder. Sam felt his jaw clench. 'Ain't' for Christ's sake. The man had gone to the same high school that he did. In fact the man had made his life a living hell by being three inches taller than him and one of the best forwards the Webster basketball team had ever had. Sam had spent his high school career on the bench, conversing with the coach about his ulcer. Even then it was medicine. "You gonna return it as soon as your done?" Jeff asked casually. God damn Roger Murphy. That asshole at the bank couldn't keep his damn mouth shut, could he. Perhaps his loose lips could also be explained by the fact they had been up for the same scholarship for college and Sam had won it. Roger had never gotten over it and probably still held a grudge for being salutatorian instead of valedictorian. "I haven't decided yet," he said coolly. "Oh." Jeff bent down to fiddle with yet another cable. "I know the owner of the Electric Cubby," --the ridiculous name of the only electronic store in town-- "we're poker buddies--" People still had poker buddies? Sam wondered. "And I could speak to him for you. You know, if you wanted to return it, or somethin'." He looked up at Sam, his eyes gleaming suspiciously. Why did he have the feeling he was being laughed at? "That would be most helpful." Jeff nodded and tipped his cap to Sam. As he walked out he said with a grin, "Well if you need help or something, I *ain't* too busy today. Ya just *hollar* and I'll make it my business to be...*most helpful*." Perhaps because he was being laughed at. Alone, Sam felt his face become hot and then he laughed. Hopefully Jeff wouldn't chop him up for compost when he asked him to disassemble the damned thing. --------- "What the hell is this?" "Looks like extremely expensive electronic equipment to me." Say that three times fast, J. D. thought. "No, I mean what are you planning to *do* with it?" Doyle studied him, his eyes thoughtful. "I thought you wanted to try hypnosis." "I don't see what -- oh." For some reason he found he hated the idea. Detested it even. "It makes sense; after all we can't know for sure what you'll remember after the fact." "Can't you, I don't know, give some kind of command. You know like: 'You will remember everything that happened here when I snap my fingers.' " "You watch a lot of TV don't you?" "Yeah, I guess I do." Doyle's eyes brightened and J. D. swore he heard a quick intake of breath. "What's your favorite movie?" His voice was calm but strangely filled with static. J. D. glared at him. "What's my favorite *movie*? What the fuck is the matter with you?" "You just told me you watched a lot of TV." Doyle said softly. J. D. tasted something tinny in his throat. "I did?" "Yeah, you did." He shivered and wrapped his arms around his body. "I don't remember. I *don't*." After a long silence Doyle continued the aborted conversation, in what J. D. considered his best 'Dry Professor Voice', and ignored the 'breakthrough'. "The reason I want to record the session is so that you can study it in a fully conscious state to get a true account of what's said. I'm not going to have you look at it right away because I feel you'll need time to recover from the actual session." J. D. swallowed. "You're not going to show it to anyone?" "I *promise* I won't. This is for you. Not for me or for anyone else." "Okay," J. D. said, accepting the kind and encouraging look Doyle was giving him. "Let's do it." ---------- At first he felt the arms, the strong angry arms take him. They hurt him, constricted him. He felt the air being pressed out of his lungs forcibly. He couldn't breath. He couldn't see. He could still feel, but he didn't want to feel. The darkness was everywhere, spreading...spreading... "Nobody's going to hurt you. You're safe. Just remember they can't get you anymore." He wanted to believe. "Tell me about them." They don't exist. They are the invisible men. They wear business suits to protect themselves. These aren't business men. They are buyers and sellers and negotiators. They are traders in the truest sense of the word. One life for this scrap of information. One soul for this piece of evidence. Life as we know it for this amount of power. Survival is the goal. The only goal. Nothing is sacred. Their faces...he didn't want to remember their faces. "Remember you can always leave here. Don't forget about our safety place." No. There was no safety place for him. The earth itself was in danger; how could a safety place exists in it's confines? He was alone but always watched. Single but always of a greater whole. "Do you see anybody?" The sudden bright light in his eyes. He could only see one, but he felt the others. Always there in the shadows, waiting...always waiting...waiting for the date. The date is set. Soon...soon is their promise, their threat, their love letter to the earth. The man with the pockmarked face. The large needle in his hands...oh god...not again. Suddenly blood everywhere. He was bathing in it, swimming in it. The lights were gone. He sat on an island in darkness and watched the red tides around him. And he was not alone. He felt a man remove the needle, still *in* his arm. A man with no face. "No face?" No face, Doyle. How's that for you? All this trouble and he doesn't have a face. He has me...he has been waiting for me. Not for the date but for me. He too waits...he doesn't have to wait long to get what he came for. He felt it surround him. Envelop him. The blackness. The elements of the darkest night sky, the molten core of the earth, the deepest minerals in the mountain. All of it became him, invaded his pores, his skin, his organs, his mind...only his heart was free. Oh god. They merged, but he was not allowed to keep himself intact. His essence, his being was superfluous. He must let go...for the greater good. Healing was a gift that would be given later. The time is now. It was taking him away. Telling things. Everything he had ever wanted...everything he had ever feared...all hope...faith...gone. They were taking everything. "What are they taking?" Me. They're taking me away. They're taking away my memories. They're taking away the memory of her. They're taking away my soul. --------- That night Doyle brought him a special dinner from the Italian restaurant down the street. Alicia helped him bring it in, along with a card table and some real silverware. J. D. couldn't help think of it as a bribe or some stupid reward. "I want to see the tape." Doyle was still placing things in front of him and he had even brought a small vase of flowers. "Tomorrow." Frustrated, he pushed away form the table, knocking over his glass in the process. "Why can't I see it tonight?" Doyle gave him that really annoyingly kind smile and picked up a napkin to clean the milk up. 'I know what's best', it seemed to scream condescendingly. "You must be exhausted--" "I'm fine." "-- *Mentally* exhausted." J. D. glared at him. "I'm *fine*. I don't know why you think my head is going to explode-- Could you just stop with the cleaning for a damn minute!" Doyle looked at him blankly, his eyes traveling to his hand still mopping up the spilled liquid. "Sorry." He picked up the soggy napkin and they watched it drip over the floor and on Doyle's shoes. He put it down on the table again. "Do you remember anything from today?" Uneasily he shrugged. "Some," he said, avoiding those damned eyes. Nobody should be allowed to have eyes like that. He had no doubt that during the Sixteenth Century Doyle would have been burned for being a witch. "Then I think you know why we should wait." Something suddenly clicked inside of J. D.'s head and he straightened his body abruptly. "You think I'm crazy, don't you?" "Of course I don't," Doyle said, soothingly. *Great*, now he was being humored. "I'm *not*. I did not make that stuff up." A long pause followed where the older man stared vacantly at the wall and milk continued to spread slowly across the table. "I'd be lying if I said some of the things you-- remembered-- today don't worry me. I think," he continued carefully, "we shouldn't take everything you-- thought-- you experienced at face value. The man with no face could be a...metaphor for something you've repressed. The black oil you mentioned--" The older man broke off the last sentence, his expression slackening, becoming distant. "Doyle. What about the black oil?" Doyle seemed to snap back to reality. "When you were brought in. Oh Christ. The evidence. I've got to get to the police station." J. D. followed as Doyle ran out of the room and down the hall to the elevators. "Does this mean I'm not crazy?" he shouted, drawing the stares of three nurses and a tolerant smile from Alicia. Doyle *grinned* at him as the elevator doors opened. "Nope." As he sat back down to his soggy pasta he couldn't think of a more beautiful word in the whole English language. END 6/7 ******* Part Seven After two days of travel and a considerable lack of personal hygiene, Scully walked into the small hospital in Eastern Maryland exhausted and drained. It was the tenth she had been to and Byers was working on his eighth, somewhere in Montgomery County. In her mind the white walls, fluorescent lights, and waiting rooms were all melding together to become the face of failure. "Did you find anything?" ::://A new partner already? Poor Mulder, your undying loyalty is simply *touching*.// He had appeared out of nowhere, in that ridiculously posh apartment. Byers. He was in the kitchen. Oh god, he hadn't...no, she could hear him on the phone arguing with Langly.::: Byers cleared his throat and the line crackled painfully in her ear. "No, no the man who arrived was a transient...he was released yesterday on his own recognizance." ::://Move an inch and I'll shoot.// The plastic arm was a surprise, she remembered the way his eyes had followed hers and the quirk in his smile. How was it that any other man would feel incomplete with a missing limb, while Alex Krycek seemed to treat it like he had lost a quarter at the bottom of a swimming pool. As an acceptable loss. //Funny running into you here, *Scully*.// She had never let her weapon stray from his chest, but he had only seemed amused by her caution.::: "What about you?" ::://Listen you son of a bitch, God help you if you know where he is because I swear I'll--//::: "Nothing. Yet. They told me over the phone a man was brought in to the ER incoherent and disoriented six days ago." A long pause followed. ::://You need me. You think *she'll* tell you anything? Him being out of the way will only serve her agenda.//::: "Did they give any more information over the phone?" ::://And what's your agenda, Krycek?//::: She swallowed. "Nothing good." ::://Please, don't bore me, okay? I suggest you take that beagle of yours and scour every hospital in Maryland. Before she gets to him.//::: "I'm going to Shady Grove Hospital in Gaithersburg next. I'll call you as soon as I get there." ::://Why?//::: "Okay." :::He had looked at her, his head cocked so the side, eyes subdued. //Why not?//::: "Keep in touch." ::://Oh and Scully?// he had said before disappearing out to the fire escape. //I'm afraid this is one time where looking for *Fox Mulder* isn't going to help you.//::: She hit the end button and took a deep breath before she approached the nurses desk. The fear of finding him, but not finding the *him* she knew, had not lessened. Would not lessen no matter how many hospitals she went to. And knowing Krycek...one could only imagine the possibilities. Incapacitation, paralysis, instability, brain washing, memory loss...the list of horrors could go on and on. "I'm Agent Dana Scully," she said, showing the nurse her badge. "I called earlier about the John Doe that was brought in?" The nurse was an older woman, kind looking. Somebody's grandmother. "Of course. He's had to be restrained; he kept trying to open the skin on the inside of his wrists. If you'll just follow me?" Oh god. Not this. You're not insane, Mulder. I swear it. All those times I called you crazy, I was joking, see? You wouldn't do this to me, would you? You are going to be *fine*. She kept a running internal dialogue with herself as she followed the nurse. The hallways, elevators, patients and doctors she saw along the way became a blur. What is it with you and restraints? I want you to grin at me. Say you think they're kinky. Something outrageous like that, so I can pretend it's all a mistake. Insanity isn't fun, Mulder. Been there, done that, right? Haven't you? Haven't we? "Here." The nurse opened the door to the dark room and waited for Scully to enter. Down the rabbit hole, she thought trying to bite back hysterical laughter. God, if this is him you and I are going to have a nice long talk. I'm afraid you'll have to find some other soul to torture, 'cause this one's mine, you hear? You can't have him. He's mine. Slowly she entered the small room, which smelled of urine and sweat. A man with dark hair and a hospital gown covered in blood...oh Jesus...his hands pinned to the side of the bed. Her heart pounded in her ears, in her temples, in her throat, in her feet. She inched slowly toward him, wanting to see his eyes. She would know his eyes anywhere. The man's eyeballs rolled slowly toward her, impossibly white in the dark room. They were large and wild and wet and...yellow. Not green. Or greenish-hazel. Or light brown. Or jade green or light gray or any other color belonging to *him*. She felt her legs give and she bent down and kissed the filthy, stained, soiled man on the forehead. "Get well," she whispered. He smiled at her blankly, unseeing and blind, the harsh light from the hall making him squint. Scully turned to leave, her back straight and her shoulders even. "Thank you," he whispered hoarsely. "Thank you, ma'am." Tears stung her eyes. "You're welcome." And then she left, wondering bleakly how a total stranger had managed to break her heart. ---------- J. D. was sitting on his bed, his eyes closed when he heard her. Actually, he smelled her first. It was a sophisticated perfume, heavy and cloying. He didn't like it. "Darling!" Slim arms, vise-like, wrapped around his neck and a body pressed against him, insistent and demanding. Confused and claustrophobic, he grabbed her by her upper arms and shoved her away. He stared at the lovely woman, her large blue eyes swimming with tears, staring back at him tenderly. "I was so worried," she choked, touching his face with her long fingers, the nails scraping against his cheek. He flinched away. "You've been gone for twelve days...you didn't call...the police couldn't find you. They finally find your car out on I-95, abandoned." Dizzy and hot, he looked up to see Marie smiling encouragingly at him from the doorway. "I...I...don't..." "Shhh, shhh," she whispered, kissing him on the cheek. "It's okay, darling. They told me everything. I told them about the blackouts. You don't remember the blackouts?" "Blackouts...?" "Yes, ever since you were little. You were in a terrible car crash with your mother. Ever since then you've had them. They've gotten better as you've gotten older. Sometimes you would just walk away in the middle of a conversation and leave. Usually it was only a few hours. Sometimes a few days. Myers is here. He'll help us figure this out." "Myers?" he parroted automatically. "He's been your psychologist for over ten years." Bewildered he stared at her, hoping for a clue. Anything that would help him remember her. Her blond hair fell attractively over her face, her smile shy as she looked up at him, the creamy white blouse she wore contrasting with her lightly tanned skin. Ashamed, he touched her cheek and wondered how he could forget her. "I don't know my name," he whispered in her ear. Her smile trembled, but remained plastered bravely on. "Henry. Henry Carr." A name. He had a name. "Thank you," he managed, hugging her, his vision suddenly blurred. Henry. Would they call him Hank? "Do you...do you remember me?" He felt his throat constrict. "I'm sorry..." "Miranda. Miranda Carr." Her voice cracked and he felt the weight on his chest. He had hurt her terribly. He promised himself he would never do it again. He closed his eyes, feeling wetness on his cheek and her body comforting his. He slumped and slipped into unconsciousness in her arms. ----------- "Sorry, Sam," Max said apologetically. "The evidence seems to have disappeared." "Disappeared?" "Uh, well, you know how it is here. Sometimes things can get misplaced. Hell, once we couldn't find that soil sample from the Berman Murder till half way through trial and turns out it was in Loretta's desk the whole damn time." Andy Griffith wouldn't have misplaced evidence, Sam thought. "Well, if it turns up--" "You'll be the first I'll call," Max promised. "Has there been anybody unusual around?" "Well," Max began, lowering his voice confidentially. "There was that uptown boy complaining about a parking ticket yesterday." Uptown boy? "You mean kind of..." Sam trailed off wondering if there was a politically correct way to say this to a man who still used euphemisms from the fifties. Max nodded knowingly. "Exactly." Shit. "Uh, Sam...I was wondering...I've been getting these cramps in my hands--" In the end he wrote five prescriptions for Webster's 'Finest' and had at least three excruciating conversations about 'women troubles' with some of the younger officers. He had definitely done his good deed for the year. Maybe even the decade. Although it was almost nine when he managed to escape the police station he headed back to the hospital. He was having an unusually strong desire to see J. D. To make sure he was all right. Perhaps he was just being overprotective. Okay, he knew he was being overprotective. Alicia was waiting for him when he got of the elevator. He had almost run her over in his haste to get back to J. D.'s hospital room. "What?" She didn't quite meet his eyes. "There's some good news. J. D.'s wife came to pick him up." Sam started walking quickly down the hall. "I need to talk to her. This is wonderful. I have no doubt she will be the catalyst that will bring his memory back--" "Sam," she said. She hadn't moved an inch. "He's gone." He stopped and turned to look at her. She kept her gaze on her white sneakers. "What do you mean *gone*?" "The nurse who was on-duty let his wife and his regular psychiatrist take him home," she paused and finished sadly, "They said he does this all the time. Arrives in some small town, pretending to have no memory to get attention. To become important. They said over the past five years this is the seventh time it's happened." "What was the psychiatrists name? I'll have to speak to him." "Sam, you're not the first he's...fooled. I know how you must feel--" "My feelings have nothing to do with this; there are facts about this case that throw a very suspicious light on this latest development." "You're looking for something that isn't there--" "Do you really think I'm that *bad* at what I do, Alicia?" he questioned angrily. "Of course not, I just think that this time you had an exceptionally personal connection with this patient and--it's affecting your judgement." He felt himself coldly withdrawal from her and a deeply buried anger rise simultaneously. "I should always hope I am affected by emotion, Alicia. The day I stop seeing a little bit of Patrick in my patients, in everybody...I don't think I have to tell you what I would do on that day. I think you know." Her face whitened and became pinched and for a second the most beautiful girl he had ever known was ugly, repulsive to him. "I'm going to forget you said that because I love you. I can't afford to hate you, Sam. So, when you're ready to talk about this like a rational adult--" "You want me to stop caring. I won't do that. Not for you, not for anybody. Do you understand me?" She studied him, her eyes dark. "Yes, I think I do." Alicia turned abruptly and walked away. He made himself forget her the second she disappeared from sight. He touched his back pants pocket and pulled a crumpled form from it. J. D.'s release form, the one Sam had promised him was his only way out of the hospital. With Sam's signature on it, of course. He wondered why fate had decided to make him a liar. END 7/7 *******