SCULLY

"We should be truly thankful for this miracle," he announces to the assembled group, without a hint of joy or humility in his tone. He is refusing to look at me, to even acknowledge my presence. Instead he simply stares directly ahead, head held high as if the dog collar is actually a neck brace, restraining his movement, keeping him on the straight and narrow path to righteousness.

I can only feel guilt: the Catholic in me. Typical. I'd laugh if the whole situation wasn't so very, very depressing. I should be delighted, of course. But I know, deep down, that saving Christian wasn't really about helping a little boy, or pushing the boundaries of medical science, or even simply doing the right thing: it was merely another chapter in my epic power struggle with the hospital administration. And this most hollow of 'victories' breaks my heart.

What have I become? I barely recognise myself any more, sitting in this archaic meeting room, listening to endless medical professionals discussing endless cases. The truth is, given enough time, all patients will simply die: every doctor in history has a 100% mortality rate. To find myself mulling over this statistic on the day of Christian's discharge from my care is disturbing. Perverse, even. But knowing my true motivation for saving him – pride, a deadly sin – I find my colleagues' praise, the grateful family, even this grudging acknowledgement from my arch enemy hard to stomach.

The meeting finally draws to a close and the assembled medics file out. I stand to join them and begin to gather up my things, contemplating how I might get through the remaining seven hours of my shift, when-

'Dr Scully, may I see you in my office?'

It's him. Not now; not today.

'I'm very busy, Father-' I begin to make my excuses; he interrupts me.

'It won't take long, doctor. And it is rather urgent.' The tone of disapproval in his voice is matched by the flash of irritation in his steely eyes.

With a sigh, I give in. We walk in silence down the harshly-lit, foreboding hallway, our out-of-sink footsteps echoing in the empty space . I feel my facial muscles tighten and my heartbeat quicken slightly; anger is welling up beneath my now-faltering professional demeanour. I am ready to do battle.

His office is familiar territory. I have been summoned here on an almost weekly basis since my appointment at Our Lady of Sorrows. The parallels with my career at the Bureau, and the irony of them, do not escape me. Today, however, feels different...final, somehow. The events of the past few months have worn me down. All my illusions of a fulfilling career in medicine have been...not shattered, something less sudden, more like worn away gradually over time.

'Take a seat,' he says, indicating the hard wooden antique chair I've occupied so many times before.

'As I said, Father, I'm busy, so can we get this over with?' I fire the opening shot.

'I appreciate that, doctor, but I'm afraid you won't have anything more to occupy your time at this institution. I called a meeting of the board this morning. As you know, you've been treading a fine line for quite some time now, and with the resignation of Father O'Connor from the board last week, I was finally able to attain the required amount of votes. The board feels that your – practices – do not comply with the strong Catholic ethos of Our Lady of Sorrows. The board are prepared to allow you to continue to hold your post for a further three months whilst you find something else, after which you can resign. However, you will not treat patients; we'll find you something else to do – lab work, research, autopsies...' he trails off, staring at me with the merest hint of a smug, satisfied smile.

'I see,' I reply, a lump forming in my throat but desperate not to betray any hint of emotion. I take a few seconds: breathe in, breathe out. I moisten my lips and I'm ready to continue.

'Well, there's nothing left to say, in that case. You'll have my resignation on your desk by the end of my shift.' My ears can hardly believe the words coming out of my mouth. Inside, a part of me is screaming every expletive under the sun. And yet the overwhelming feeling is one of pure, unadulterated relief: it's all over. As I stand up to leave, I can see the bewilderment on his face: if only he knew that I was as surprised as he is by my reaction.

For the first time in a long time, I hold my head up high as I walk along the hall. I feel somehow like I've clawed back some self-respect, some dignity. I allow myself a slight smile. This bitter chapter of my life is over. Relief courses through my veins like a drug. I am glad to be alive.

I look at the clock: in six and a half hours' time, I'll be out of here and where I belong.

With Mulder.