Title: Terra Firma
Author: Carolina
Category: DRR UST, DSF
Rating: PG-13
Author's notes: I have a lot of work in school right now, it's killing me, so please give me a break over here. Asking me if the next part is done 20 times a day is just frustrating, it doesn't make me write faster. I'm not getting paid for this (unless you all want to send me a cheque) so please give me time to breathe. I also write long parts so I don't have to send out a chapter a day; this one is 21 pages long. That being said, enjoy. I am always working on the next part, but keep in mind I have more important things to do, graduating from college being one of them.

-TERRA FIRMA 5-

The nightmare was back.

John was back in the field, somewhere in time, standing still in the countryside of the past. Men dressed as cops and detectives surrounded a small portion of the field, forming a circle. And he stood there, reliving the scene that had been tormenting him for nine years. He knew it was a dream, he had it often. But this time, something was different.

Monica wasn't there.

He walked over slowly, knowing what he would find: the dead body of his son. The emotions hadn't changed with time. They still gave him a stomach ache, and he felt that lightheadedness that back then made him believe it was all a nightmare.

But he knew it was real. He knew it then and he knew it now.

Only this time, the cops didn't leave as he approached the body. They kept looking down, and for a moment John thought that would be an opportunity to flee, but he couldn't. He had to see him. He had to see his boy, put an end to this nightmare.

Like a curtain, some of the men moved to the side. John closed his eyes to say one last prayer, but when he opened them, his body grew cold and stiff.

Luke wasn't there. Monica was.

Her lifeless body lay face down on the ground; in the same position Luke had been found. John tried to reach down to her, but he couldn't move. His body was bound, and as hard as he tried to move his legs and arms, they refused to. He could feel his heart beating wildly against his chest, making it almost impossible to breathe.

Suddenly, one of the men knelt down to touch Monica's body, and when John looked to his side, he realized the cops surrounding him weren't men. One of them stared at him with big black eyes and gray skin, and suddenly a mantle of white blurred his face.

This time, when his body jerked forward as he woke up, his gasp was accompanied by a sharp pain on the side of his stomach.

With a wince, he put his hand over the wound to come in contact with a bandage. He looked down at it; it was stained slightly with blood, and that triggered a memory of the events of the previous night.

John was glad the nightmare was over, but nonetheless, an irritated sigh escaped his lungs. His head was pounding, and when he brought his hand up to stroke his face, he felt a bump on the side of his forehead.

Pushing aside the sheets that covered his body, he looked at his surroundings, only to frown at the realization that he was in a strange room and laying in a bed that wasn't his own. A slight sense of panic washed over him when he thought, for a moment, that whoever had shot him had kidnapped him as well. He thought that if that was the case, then maybe Monica was around as well. But before he could get to his feet to go find her, the door opened.

John was half glad, yet half disappointed, to see Scully walk into the room. He took a breath and stared as she approached him with a serious expression on her face. He guessed she was still mad at him for the way he treated her the last time he saw her and that made him feel guilty. But mostly he was confused.

Scully threw all rules of courtesy away as she approached him and without permission, she removed the bandage and checked on the wound. "Does it hurt?"

It hurt like hell, especially when she mercilessly ripped the tape off his skin. But he didn't even flinch. "Not much."

"It's just a scratch, you were lucky."

John looked down at it. An ugly laceration spread around five inches on his side. He had been shot before, but not like this. Usually the bullets went in and out. What the hell happened? "Where are we?"

"Skinner's," Scully replied. "I called him last night."

John suddenly wanted to crawl into a hole. And from deep within, he could only look up at her and mutter, "'M sorry."

Scully looked at him as she folded a blanket. She considered his words for a moment, but remained quiet. The silence was excruciating, and she knew it was even more so to him. So she didn't say anything. It was the only punishment she could carry out without actually hurting him physically.

Moments passed, and when she opened her mouth to say something, Skinner walked into the room with a less than pleased look on his face. John felt as if he was on display, and watched as Skinner stood next to Scully, hands resting on his hips, and both of them looking down at him as if he was a lab rat in an experiment that had gone terribly wrong.

"How is he?" Skinner asked.

"He's doin' fine," John replied, and regretted it immediately.

"Agent Doggett, after last night's foolishness, the best thing you can do right now is keep your mouth shut. We're all doing our best to find Agent Reyes, but you behaving as an incorrigible child is not helping anybody."

Apologizing seemed patronizing and redundant, so John fell prey to silence. Unfortunately, Skinner didn't seem to have the same plan.

"You should probably get on your knees and thank us, because if it wasn't for Agent Scully right now you'd be laying in a hospital bed with Brad Follmer standing at the end of an angry Foley Catheter."

That was actually damn funny, and it made John feel a little more at ease. But he suddenly felt guilty for the comfort. It was an emotion he would not allow himself to feel until he found Monica.

"Did you see a license plate?" Skinner asked, reaching for a pad inside his suit and finding a pen on top of a dresser.

"No," John replied.

"Did you see anybody? The driver?"

John shook his head, suddenly depressed by what Skinner described perfectly when he called it a 'foolishness'.

"It was a white… person," John suddenly said.

"A white person in a black car," Skinner grumbled. He took in a deep breath and let it out in a long hiss to dramatize the situation.

And suddenly the AD looked like a volcano about to explode, but took a couple more seconds to calm himself down. John knew there were a thousand other things his boss wanted to say to him, a couple of ugly words among them. But to his luck, the older man put the pad back inside the pockets of his jacket and pinched the bridge of his nose for a couple of seconds.

"I have to go back to work," he finally said. "I told Kersh you took a sick day, but bright and early on Monday."

"Yes, sir," John replied. He didn't look up to see his boss walk out of the room; he didn't even look up when it was just him and Scully.

When he did, he noticed she was still folding the same blanket she had been working on before Skinner walked in. He knew she wasn't going to take the first step, so he swung his feet over the edge of the bed and apologized for letting his feelings get the better of his judgment. And to his surprise, she apologized for letting the voice of reason get the better of hers.

"But I know what you're going through, John. I've been in your shoes tens of times and if what I say sounds crude, bottom line is I am just trying to help."

"I know."

Scully looked down to see her fingers playing with the sheets of the bed. She didn't want to disrupt the balance they had now, but she had to ask. "Are you sure you didn't see something you wanted to keep from Skinner?"

"No," John replied. After a pause he added, "Did you?"

She stared at him for a moment or two, and then shook her head. "But I mean to find out."

"I don't have any enemies, if that's your first question," he said almost cynically.

"It's not."

"And as for why someone would try to kill me-"

She let out some kind of amused sigh as she shook her head while her eyes looked out the window. "Nobody tried to kill you, John."

He raised his eyebrows at her, wordlessly challenging her theory with an indication to his wound.

Scully sat on the bed, finally, as her expression turned serious again. "A five year old boy is playing around the house with his best friend. He goes into his parents' room and finds a gun hidden in a dresser drawer. Five minutes later, his best friend has a hole between his eyes. Last night, a grown person who obviously knows how to use a gun and had a clear shot, left you in an alley with a scratch and a concussion. How plausible do you think that is, John?"

At first he wondered where she was going with this, but it was becoming clearer and clearer with every word. His whole body was suddenly cold. Fuck.

With a big, shiny, capital F.

"Whoever shot you was not trying to kill you. They were trying to give you a warning, trying to scare you away."

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

"And if you don't listen, next time they may not be so kind," Scully finished.

Confusion was probably the worst feeling while you were working on an important case. It crept into the room now and John had the feeling it would stay with him for a while. This was already too big a case. And it kept getting bigger with every second that went by. John wondered just how long he could take all of this. Three days was one thing, three weeks was another. Even though Luke's kidnapping had been the most excruciating time, morbidly, he was half glad that it was done and over in three days. He had known of parents whose children had been gone for years. During that time, they had fallen into an emotional commotion they had never really had the chance to get out of.

He was feeling that commotion now. When he answered the phone to learn about Monica's disappearance, his mind somehow told him that it was okay. It was alright. This was probably a misunderstanding, a mistake on Skinner's part. Monica had probably gone off on a long drive and the car they had found wasn't hers. And when he got down there and saw the scene with his own eyes, it was still alright, because he knew they would find her by the end of the day. But suddenly one day turned into two, and two into three. In a blink of an eye a week had gone by, then two, now three. And if that wasn't enough, someone was trying to keep him from finding Monica. It wasn't just frustrating and nerve-wrecking. It was pure torture.

Scully stared at him as he raked his hair all the way back to the back of his neck, the sign of a desperate man on the brink of losing all self-control.

"Why?" he finally asked, searching her eyes for some kind of answer. They didn't tell him anything, so he hoped her words would.

"Well, somebody obviously wants you out of the case," Scully said matter-of-factly.

John's mind immediately searched for hundreds of names that might top that list. People who wanted him out of the case? "Brad Follmer?"

Scully shook her head. "I don't think so. He has feelings for Monica. Even if he hates you, his main focus point right now is finding her. He may not like our theory, but he knows that we have a better chance of finding her than he does."

John let out what sounded like a hybrid between a moan and a grunt. He was kind of hoping it would be Brad Follmer. Going against the AD was easier than going against a ghost.

Scully kept looking at him and could recognize the confusion in his eyes. It wasn't really that hard; the same confusion had once been hers to host. She looked at the clock resting on a night stand and then at her watch to verify the time. "Go home, John. There's not much we can do right now."

By now, John's breathing was a little labored. "Who are you thinkin' of?"

The question, while fair and legitimate, took her by surprise. At this point, she didn't think speculating was a very good idea, especially if her theories were wrong. Years of working alongside Mulder gave her a sixth sense about these kinds of things. If she told John about the predictability of the situation, she didn't know how he'd react. Somehow she knew it wouldn't be too pretty. He needed this anonymity because it boosted his determination. Monica didn't have the luxury of having John give up on her. Scully didn't either.

So she shook her head and replied, "I don't know." He was disappointed with her answer, but at the moment, that was all she could give him.

"I have a class in an hour," she added, clearing away some of the somber mood. "Are you going to be okay?"

"Yeah," John said.

John Doggett was really predictable, and equally obsessive, especially with this case. But mostly he was a bad liar. "John, please go home. Don't do anything stupid."

"I won't," he said.

"I hope so, because Skinner is going to call you later to make sure you're at home."

That actually made him mad. He didn't like being babysat. But he didn't show it. "Okay."

He could have pinky sworn over it, given her his word or promised her the unattainable, but Scully knew the last place John would go to was home.

He kept his eyes on her as she walked out of the room, and when he heard the main door shut, he stood up and began to search for his clothes. He found his pants spread over a chair, along with one of Skinner's shirts and as he put them on he heard his keys jingling from inside his jacket. He tried to lay the bed neatly, maybe clean a little of the mess he had made, but his concentration wasn't set on impressing Skinner. He found a basket of fruit on the kitchen table and grabbed an apple. When he walked out, his car was waiting by the curb.

Going to Monica's apartment was now more of an involuntary reaction than a decision. He knew it was irrational behavior, but he knew it was easier to succumb to it than fight it. The same behavior had him checking every corner of her apartment for at least a molecule of a clue. And when he found nothing, he would go home and come back the next day, as if in his absence, someone would come in and plant some evidence. It was a compulsive obsession he wasn't sure when exactly it had found him, or when it would leave. He could remember meeting it nine years before when Luke had been kidnapped. Now he wasn't sure it had ever really left him.

When he had nothing else to do, he'd clean. The landlord was beginning to get irritated at the uninhabited apartment because there was a couple interested in it, but John refused to let it go. So he kept paying Monica's rent, along with every one of her bills. Sometimes, when irrationality was at its worst, he'd find himself going to the market to buy some milk, because if Monica came back tonight, she'd need milk. Maybe a bigger disappointment was coming back five days later to find the milk had gone sour.

Her small mailbox sat at the lobby, untouched. John's wound was beginning to throb as the effects of whatever pain killers Scully had given him wore off, but he ignored that as he made his way up the stairs. The floors seemed quieter than usual, except for that same soap opera that the lady in 1B seemed to turn on every day at twelve. He knew her by name, as he knew every tenant in the building. Some of them would call during the week to ask if they had found Monica. But most would close their doors and pretend they weren't home when John made his weekly rounds to see if they had noticed something strange around the building.

Another one of madness' tricks.

Today, he seemed to be more tired than ever when he finally found himself on Monica's floor. But he couldn't linger on that feeling for long, because his eyes quickly focused on a shadow standing in front of her door. It didn't take him long to realize the man was trying to pick the lock, it took him even less time to recognize the man as Michael Bonsall.

"Hey!" John yelled as his feet stumbled forward. In a matter of seconds, Bonsall looked at him with wide, scared eyes, and then sprinted toward the stairs on the other side of the floor.

John's legs seemed to be more aware of the situation than his brain, because they were already at the door to the stairs. He peeked over the hand rail; Bonsall was one floor ahead of him, and John's yells didn't seem to scare Bonsall any more than they scared him.

When he made it to the ground floor, the trespasser tried to open the emergency door, but it didn't give in. He looked up at John for a second or two and then ran in the opposite direction, down a hallway that led to the front desk.

John jumped the last four steps, but when he made a U turn to continue running, the side of his stomach hit the hand rail of the steps. He almost fell down, letting out a wince and then a grunt, and his hand went over the wound for a second, but he continued to run.

The light of the day was suddenly blinding, but just for a second, and his eyes quickly adjusted to see a shadow round a corner. John ran in that direction, but when he came around it, he saw a car screech down the street. People calmly walked the sidewalks as if nothing had happen, and John knew that asking them was probably futile.

So he rested his hands on his knees as he caught his breath, and instinctively, his hand went over to the side of his stomach. There was wetness there, and when he looked down he saw blood percolating through the fabric of the shirt, giving it a dark purple color.

A young couple walked over, with their eyes stuck on Skinner's blood stained shirt. The guy opened his eyes wide and inched closer. "Jesus, man! Are you okay?"

"Uh-huh," John replied.

"You're bleeding," the girl said.

"No shit, Mindy," her boyfriend replied.

"Don't you start with me now," she said through clenched teeth.

"I'm alright, thank you," John said. The couple didn't go away, but he began to walk back towards the building.

"Seriously, man. My car is right over there, hospital's not too far away."

"I'll be alright," John added, this time a little crudely to see if they'd get the hint. "Thank you."

"All right, man," the young man said. "Take it easy."

John could feel their eyes burning holes into his back, but he ignored that as he climbed the stairs back into Monica's apartment. Although the main lock looked like it had been picked, the inside of the apartment appeared to be exactly how he had left it two days ago.

Then he cussed and cursed at his stupidity. He had known it from the start. John knew the reason Bonsall played all those riddles with him was that he was in on this. From the start. And he had made a fool out of John. With another capital F.

He took a moment to control his anger, and when he finally did, he found a bottle of aspirin in the kitchen and gulped two with a glass of tap water. While he walked down her small hallway, he made a mental note to tell the landlord to change the locks.

Inside the bathroom, John took his shirt off to asses the damage. The bandage was soaked with blood and sure enough, some of the stitches were now open. Not too bad, but it was bleeding like there was no tomorrow. He opened the cabinet that also served as a mirror and was relieved to find a first aid kit inside. He still remembered her coaxing him into stealing it from the bureau when she had cut her finger cooking. He opened it up and hundreds of little gadgets fell into the sink; she had barely used the things inside.

It was almost disturbing, how much they had worked to make her apartment safe and yet she was taken away a couple of yards from it. After a man had broken into Scully's apartment and almost killed William and Mrs. Scully, he showed up at Monica's apartment with a tool kit and a smile. He had obsessively installed the locks to her door, bars in some of the windows and even a simple alarm system, an idea she deemed as ridiculous, because having an alarm system in an apartment building was suddenly something "geeky", as she had referred to it.

"John, this is insane!" she protested. "There are dozens of other apartments they can get to before mine, and I sleep with my gun under the pillow."

"You're a single woman livin' alone in a big city, Monica. Any guy can sneak in and do God knows what before you get a chance to react."

"I live in an apartment building, John."

"So does Agent Scully, and I don't have to tell 'ya how many times she's been clunked over the head by some big guy," John said.

"Do you have any idea how sexist that sounds?" Monica said in what sounded like an angry tone, but was mostly irritated; as she let her hands fall heavily on her hips.

"Sexist or not, you don't wanna take any chances. D'you know a lot of rapes take place in the victim's homes?"

She didn't reply to that, so he found her with his eyes and watched her face turn into an angry frown. So he winked at her and smiled, "C'mon, Monica. You'd do the same for me."

"Actually, right now the thought of a big man violently having his way with you is just comforting."

He chuckled at the bittersweet memory, but then chastised himself. Monica wasn't a memory. And he wouldn't turn her into one either.

John had bargained with her until they agreed to get rid of the alarm, but keep the locks and bars. Looking back at it, it seemed no less irrational than his daily trips to Monica's in the present. He couldn't really explain that behavior either. After Luke's death and his divorce, he distanced himself from the people he cared about. Loving is wonderful, he knew that. Losing that love was not a chance he was sure he could take. But Monica had consistently been there. For nine years, she was probably the only friend he had. Crossing that line from acquaintance to friendship was not something he had been planning on. He had tried to keep his distance after that happened, but no matter how far he'd run, somehow Monica was always there. If he couldn't isolate himself from her, then he had to make sure they'd never say goodbye. For Christ's sake, this was Monica. She was practically surgically attacked to him. How on earth would he ever be able to survive if she wasn't there?

As he cleaned the wound with stinging alcohol, he stared at the contents of her cabinet. Two bottles of strawberry scented shaving cream sat facing him, and another two bottles of bubble bath next to them. So Monica.

Standing here, among her things, gave him an eerie feeling he couldn't explain. It was as if she was still there. If he was in the bathroom, he could close his eyes and almost hear her in another room. Not just sounds, but smells too. Three weeks had gone by and the place still smelled like her, no matter how many times he washed covers and sheets. It was a comforting feeling, but also haunting.

When the wound was clean, he threw the dirty bandage away and found a new one. He also buttoned his jacket so that no one would notice the blood. Leaving the apartment was something he never looked forward too, but this time it wasn't half bad. He was lucky to find the landlord in the basement, and when John informed him of the intruder trying to pick the lock, the older man didn't really seem that interested. Maybe those sorts of things had happened before in the area, but John thought it was mostly because the man was beginning to get tired of hearing him complain.

But he agreed to change the lock, only one. John was a little irritated but thanked him nonetheless and when he walked out of the building, the same young kids that were worried about him earlier were now making out inside their car. John shook his head and climbed into his own, feeling the open edges of his wound rub against each other when he sat. It was more annoying than painful, he had had his share of wounds in the past, but he hoped the aspirin would kick in soon. He noticed the gas gauge was near Empty, so he turned the engine on and drove to the nearest gas station.

------

Dozens of enthusiastic students made their way out of the academy as John made his way in. He didn't know Scully's schedule, but somehow, after driving around while contemplating what to do, he had ended up in Quantico. She was the only person he could go to at the moment; she was probably the only person he could trust. He needed her for guidance and support, because at the moment he wasn't sure what was up or what was down.

He found her walking down the hallway towards him, her eyes glued to some papers she carried in her hand.

"Agent Scully?"

Scully looked up immediately, expecting to see another curious student, but found John there instead. She didn't like that disturbingly confused look on his face.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Can we talk?"

She looked at her watch, and then guided John towards the Professor's lounge. There, John took off his jacket, and Scully's eyes widened to the size of oranges when she saw the blood on the side of Skinner's shirt.

"What happened?" she asked.

"I had a little run in with Bonsall," John replied.

Scully made him sit down on a chair and unbuttoned his shirt again to inspect the wound, this time removing the bandage carefully. "Monica's neighbor?"

"He was tryin' to sneak into her apartment," he explained.

"Why?" she asked.

"That's what I'd like to know."

"Did you call the police?" Scully asked.

John shook his head. "I don't know if I should. I wanted to ask you first."

There was nothing inside the lounge that Scully could take care of the wound with, so she taped the bandage back on, and rested her hands on her hips to look at him. After a moment, she said, "We have to tell someone."

John let out a sigh. "What if Follmer finds out?" John asked.

Scully shrugged her shoulders. "Then he finds out."

"And takes the case away from me," John replied somewhat angrily. "We're not telling him."

That seemed to irritate Scully a little bit, and she let out a sigh of frustration as she looked to her side, and then at him. "John, if you're going to butt heads with Brad Follmer, do it because he really is being antagonistic. But don't turn this into a pissing contest; who can rescue Monica first and become the hero."

That hurt. It actually hurt more than the wound. But right now he couldn't afford alienating Scully again. So he didn't react the way he wanted to. Lucky for him, she changed the topic.

"We should at least tell Skinner," she said. "I know you don't trust him fully, but I do."

John nodded without saying a word.

"And if we want to find Bonsall maybe we should alert the authorities," Scully added.

"I'm gonna go talk to his landlord, maybe he knows something," John said.

"Good," Scully sighed. A bell rang, and she looked at her watch. "I have another class. Can you meet me at my apartment in an hour or so? I don't know if I can close that wound again, but I don't want it to get infected."

John nodded again.

Scully stared at him. Warning him about getting into another mess was useless, so she smiled faintly and walked out of the room.

John buttoned his shirt as another professor walked into the room. He really didn't have time to acknowledge her, but watched as she made a surprised face at the blood on his shirt.

Outside, the hallways were isolated, and as he made his way outside, he noticed the sun was gone and it looked like it would rain. When he parked in front of Monica's building, drops of water were pouring slightly from the dark clouds. He had forgotten his umbrella, as usual, so he let the rain refresh his skin as he ran to the building next to Monica's.

John looked at the panel outside of the apartment building to see if there even was a landlord on the site, and luckily he found his office in the basement. The door was partly open, but he knocked on it slightly.

"I told you, the plumbing will be fixed as soon as the new pipes come in!" the landlord shouted.

John opened the door fully, watching as an overweight man ate from a box of Krispy Kreme donuts and played a round of computer solitaire. He looked up at John and frowned. "Who the hell are you?"

"Agent John Doggett; I'm with the FBI," John answered as he showed the man his badge.

"FBI? What does the FBI want around here?" the man asked as he ignored the tower of napkins in front of him and licked his fingers clean.

"I was hopin' to get some information on one of your tenants, Michael Bonsall," John asked.

The landlord scoffed. "You're FBI, why don't you tell me?"

"'Scuse me?" John asked.

"Michael Bonsall doesn't live here anymore," the man said, finally shutting down the game. "I found his apartment empty two days ago; he didn't even pay the last month of rent either."

"D'you know where he went?" John asked.

"Would I be bitchin' about the money if I did?" the landlord replied.

John let out a sigh of disappointment.

"What'd he do?"

"Nothing," John replied. "Is it possible to look at his apartment?"

"Do I have another choice?" the landlord replied. He reached into a cabinet and threw John a key. "Hey, when you find this bastard, I want my 800 bucks."

"Thanks, I'll put that in my list of priorities," John said sarcastically and walked out of the office. The key was greasy with chocolate oil and John cleaned it off by rubbing it against his suit jacket. He pushed on the elevator button a couple of times, because he was suddenly too tired to walk up or down steps. After a couple of minutes, the elevator arrived and John pushed the number two to go up. When he made it to the second floor, the older lady they had met not too long ago was waiting. John smiled at her slightly, but she didn't seem to remember him.

Bonsall's apartment was at the end of the hall, almost hidden between a corner and the fire exit. John used the key to open the door, and sure enough, as soon as he stepped in he noticed the apartment was completely empty. He tried to turn on the lights but the electricity had already been taken off. So he relied on the cloudy day to illuminate the rooms. But even if the sun had been pouring through the windows, John wouldn't have been able to find something, because the apartment had been cleared off every single molecule of dust. He opened cabinets and drawers, but there was nothing inside of them. So John walked down the small hallway and he noticed the plumbing was surely old, because drops of filthy water dripped from the bathroom sink.

When he walked into the bedroom, he tried to turn on the lights, only to remember nothing was working. A mirror hung from one of the walls and John approached it, but it was spotless. He let out a sigh as he stood in the middle of an empty room.

He looked to his side, and noticed some drapes had been left to cover the single window. So he walked over and pushed them to the side only to frown at the sight. Bonsall's window looked straight into Monica's bedroom.

------

An hour later, John sat on Scully's couch, staring straight ahead. Thoughts had been racing through his mind so furiously that they quickly made way for a migraine. And that, in turn, left him thoughtless.

Scully walked into the room with a kit and he suddenly wondered why she would have medical instruments in her apartment. Wordlessly, she made him lay down as she tried to seal the wound again. It had dried up and it would definitely scar.

As she worked on the wound, she tried to coax him into going to the hospital to avoid infection, but he argued that if and when it got infected, then he'd go to the emergency room.

She didn't reply to that but kept staring up at him; his eyes were fixed on a spot on the far wall. "We have to tell Kersh, John," Scully said. "This is important."

"I know," John sighed. "But he's probably out of the state by now and ten bucks say Michael Bonsall isn't his real name either."

Scully knew what he was thinking. She felt guilty too for letting Bonsall go. But he had never really been a suspect. Something told her that he really wasn't involved in Monica's abduction either. Bonsall's presence in the case seemed to be the result of something else. Maybe he knew her. Maybe he had helped her in the case. Whatever it was, Scully had only seen fear in Bonsall's eyes. Not evil.

"We'll start a search immediately, he won't get far," she said.

"I should have known," John said.

"There's no way anyone would have known," she replied. "So don't do this to yourself again. Go home and get some sleep. I'll call Skinner first thing in the morning."

John remained quiet, unable to wrap his brain around the previous day's events. When Scully finished him up, she offered him some food, but John declined. He grabbed his coat and thanked her for the medical care. She smiled as he walked out, and suddenly the drizzle of rain had turned into a storm. He ran towards his car, and as if it had been in auto pilot, it took him home without John even knowing how.

He noticed now he had forgotten to turn all the lights off two nights ago and that meant he'd be getting a hell of a bill, but he'd deal with it when it came in the mail. He turned them all off as he headed toward his bedroom, and he didn't even bother to change before his body hit the mattress. Sleep found him easily that night.

His head turned towards the window and he watched as small drops of water raced each other down the crystal. When he closed his eyes and opened them again, it was noon. The clouds had been cleared away and the lonely sun was shining in the blue sky. His body ached all the way to his toes, but he still stood up to get changed and drink some tea.

And then he suddenly remembered he had never called Monica's parents the day before. He thought over and over of what he would say, surely finding out Bonsall was probably involved was good news, a breakthrough. He hated lying to them, or exaggerating the facts. But he also couldn't bear being the one who always had to report the lack of news.

But he picked up the phone and dialed the hotel number. After a couple of rings, Clara picked it up. Same news: nothing yet. Same reaction: disappointment. Clara passed the phone to Gabriel and as they talked, John noticed something different in their voices. It had been a gradual change, but he noticed it today more than ever before. There was a tone of resignation in both of them, as if they were beginning to lose hope. He tried to interrupt Gabriel to tell them something that might make that tone disappear even if he had to make up a lie, but Gabriel never paused.

"We have to go, John," he said.

"Alright, I'll call you-"

"No," Gabriel interrupted. "We have to go back to Mexico."

John's body stiffened. "What?"

Gabriel explained that he had to attend his business, and that even if he could have someone work for him, they were starting to run out of money. John tried to convince them to stay with him, where they didn't have to spend another cent. But Gabriel declined.

"I can't believe you're giving up on this," John said angrily.

"We're not giving up, John," Gabriel replied calmly.

"The hell you are!" John replied. "I told you I'd find her; I AM going to find her. I-"

"We know you are, John," Gabriel said. "But there are circumstances-"

"Bullshit!"

"John!" Gabriel said sternly, almost like a father scolding his son.

John let out a sigh of frustration. His breathing was labored and his pulse was racing. He looked around the kitchen. Somehow everything seemed surreal, as if he was having one of those nightmares where he found Monica dead. Maybe it was. Maybe.

When their tension had vanished, Gabriel began, "If you want us to stay, John."

"No, it's," John sighed, releasing some of the anger, but not enough. "'M sorry. If you have to go, I understand."

A pause between them, a little uncomfortable before Gabriel confessed, "It's just hard, John, staying here. Days go by and nothing happens. We can't sit by the phone anymore. Clara needs to be with her family, and maybe if I go back to work, maybe it will be better. It's too hard here."

"I know," John said.

There was no need to explain. As fathers, they both understood. "We will call you tomorrow," Gabriel said.

"Okay."

None of them knew what else to say. John agreed to stay home for their phone call and offered to drive them to the airport. Gabriel apologized again; Clara sent her love, and John somberly hung up the phone.

Anger boiled his blood and his arms launched at the toaster, sending it across the kitchen and scattering little parts of it over the floor. His outburst was entirely selfish. He wanted them to stay because they were his backbone, but he had never thought about the way they felt inside. He could imagine it, maybe feel an iota of it because his own son had been taken away as well, but he could never feel half the anguish they felt right now. Their only daughter. Years and years trying to conceive, trying to have something they could lavish their love onto. They had finally found their touchstone when Monica was brought into their lives. And now she had been taken away from them.

John walked to the backyard and sat in a chair he never remembered having bought. After the rain, the sun shone enthusiastically in the sky and John would look up at it for as long as his vision allow, and then again and again.

But being conscious was suddenly too painful for him to bear, so he went back to bed. As he lay there, a thought came into his mind: he had never been so lonely his entire life. Ever.

And even those moments, when he thought he would die from loneliness, the phone would always ring and Monica would merrily greet him from the other side of the line, as if she knew when he needed to hear someone's voice the most. If Monica didn't call, a long lost friend would, or a family member. But the phone always rang.

Monica's parents had given him just that. They always called when he needed a little boost. Gabriel would often talk about something else so that they didn't have to think of Monica and Clara had cooked so much for John, that his refrigerator was filled with frozen food in plastic containers. He had no idea what he would do without them here. John loved these people, and the idea of them leaving broke his heart. But he wouldn't wallow on that feeling now.

His eyes closed lazily and seconds later he was asleep, and for the rest of the weekend he would only get out of bed to go to the bathroom.

----

On Monday morning, John arrived at the bureau two hours too early. The effects of too much sleep were now catching up with him and his whole body screamed for a hot cup of coffee. As the liquid began to brew, he reached inside the file cabinet for all the abduction cases again to see if Bonsall's name appeared in any of them. He put them all on top of his desk and sat down with a steamy mug between his hands. The silence was quickly becoming excruciating.

After drinking a cup, he thought it would be better to find out if Bonsall had changed his name. Maybe he had a previous record and John could find out something about him that would make the search easier. Futile, he thought, because they had probably done that when he had brought him in for custody, yet he wouldn't take any chances. But before his fingertips hit the first key, the phone began to ring.

"John Doggett."

A feminine voice on the other side let him know that Kersh wanted to see him. Jesus, he was beginning to think the older man followed him around with a camera.

"I'll be right there," John said. He hung up the phone, and looked down enticingly at his second cup of coffee. Even the smell made him feel so much better, like he was in a different place. Half a cup was gone, and he gulped the other half before he walked out the door.

The trips to Kersh's office weren't pleasant, but this time he was glad for any excuse that would get him out of that basement office. People were starting to come into work and John nodded to a couple of acquaintances as he made his way to the elevator area. At least 20 agents were already waiting, and John snuck into one of the elevators when its doors opened. So did everyone else. Inside, he rested his head against the elevator wall and looked at his companions. It was quite a comical scene, actually. They all had the newspaper on their right hands and a Starbucks cup on the left. They all read the same article, and they all sipped from their cups of coffee at the same time.

With a ding, the doors opened and everyone scattered. John waited until the elevator was empty to walk out, and as soon as he did, he jumped when Skinner suddenly appeared next to him as if from nowhere.

"Jeez!" John exclaimed.

But Skinner didn't apologize. "I need to talk to you."

"I was just on my way to see Kersh," John replied.

"I know," Skinner said. John didn't move, so he added, "Now."

John looked at him suspiciously, but followed his boss into his office. Inside, Skinner shut the door behind them and walked over. "How's your stomach?"

"What's this about?" John asked.

Skinner grimaced at John's rawness but let it slide. "This meeting with Kersh, I need you to promise you won't lash out.

"What are you talking about?"

Skinner tried to dance around the issue to buy himself some time but that didn't work. He took a short breath and the words left his mouth before he had time to think about it. "They're assigning you a new partner."

John's eyes widened. "What?"

Skinner walked around his desk and sat down. "I wanted to tell you first because I knew how you were going to react. So scream if you want to scream, throw things against the wall. But when you go see Kersh, you need to remain professional."

"They can't do this!" John exclaimed.

"Of course they can. They should have done it weeks ago."

"It's only been three weeks," John argued.

"Only?" Skinner asked. "John, three weeks is a long time, you know that. Do you think the authorities are still interested in the case? There are already rumors around the bureau about Monica being dead. Enough time passes by and she'll become a file in the back of the archive. They're not going to sit around and accommodate to your needs."

"Aw, jeez," John protested. "You can't possibly-"

"John, just go in there and take it. I can't give you a better advice," Skinner said.

John let out a sigh, resting his hands on his hips and looking around. "What about agent Scully? Why can't she be my partner?"

"Agent Scully already has another job," Skinner said. "Look, this may just be temporary. When Agent Reyes comes back, she'll resume her position. But for now, they won't let you work alone."

"And you agreed?"

"It wasn't my decision to make," Skinner replied. He was going to continue, but instead watched as John let out a grunt and walked out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

And then John slammed another door when he stepped into his office. If there was any time to take a leave of absence, this was it. At that point, he was starting to think he didn't need the bureau to find his partner. Kersh nonchalantly told him the news, and as unpleasant as it was, John took them with posture and grace. And then suddenly Kersh was announcing that almost all the police stations around the country just didn't have the time or the men to continue looking for Monica. John had expected that, of course. He always did. But he was hoping Follmer would come through.

So he sat on his chair and stared at the computer screen. He thought of calling Scully, but he knew she'd most likely be teaching a class. So he picked up one of the new files and read its contents. When he finished, he picked up another one, and another one. More incredulous crap; monsters, cults, ghosts, and vampires. He suddenly felt like a pot of boiling water violently trying to push the lid off.

Hours passed as he sat there, and when he decided to leave early, a soft knock on the door caught his attention.

"Agent Doggett?"

John looked up to see a small head peeked into the office. "Can I help you?"

She smiled faintly and walked all the way in to offer him her hand. "Hi, I'm Kate."

"Kate?" John asked as he shook her hand.

"Your new partner?" she said and then jumped slightly in place. "Oh, they didn't tell you, did they?"

John took a small breath as he looked at her from head to toes. "Yeah, they did."

"Oh, good," she said, putting a hand to her heart and letting out an exaggerated sigh.

John looked at her from head to toes. A rude move, he knew it, but he couldn't help it. There was some kind of ethnicity about her he couldn't identify: maybe Jewish or Italian. Small, buffed up, wearing a wedding ring. When he looked up at her he found her studying him in return. That made him uncomfortable, but more uneasy was the awkward silence between them.

He looked at the ID pinned to her suit and read, "Di Cello?"

She nodded. "Italian. Brooklyn."

John nodded in return and it clicked. Italian, of course. Jet black hair and somewhat thick eyebrows she probably never plugged because in that part of the world, men liked thick eyebrows. Or whatever. She had short legs, short arms, but probably a hell of an attitude. He wondered if she knew just how tough it would be to work on the X-Files.

Kate shifted on her feet uncomfortably and looked around. "Anyway, I just wanted to introduce myself."

John just found himself nodding again.

"I heard about your partner." That caught his attention and he narrowed his eyes at her. "I'm sorry for your loss."

He looked away and walked around his desk, heading for the archives. "She's not dead."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Kate apologized. "I just heard…"

"Do you believe in aliens?" John asked, interrupting her.

"What?" she asked as if caught by surprised, widening her eyes.

"Do you know what we do down here?" John asked, putting the files in place.

"Unexplained cases," Kate replied. "I'm not deaf, Agent Doggett. The X-Files have a strong reputation."

There were a million other things John wanted to reply to that but didn't. All that anger pent up inside of him was threatening to lash out at her. Because she was taking Monica's place. Because she would be here every day as a reminder of this nightmare. Because she did apologize for Monica's kidnapping, but she most likely didn't give a fuck. Because she was here to do her job, which she probably didn't care about, and then she'd go home to her husband every night so that they could make love under the moon while they whispered little nothings to each other. Because even if she inherited Monica's desk, even temporarily, Kate would never know her just the way John did. Because it wasn't her pain, but John wanted her to feel it. He wanted her to suffer the way he was suffering right now.

But he knew it wasn't her fault she had been assigned to the X-Files. It wasn't her fault she would be clearing away Monica's belongings and she wasn't the reason Monica was gone.

So he pressed his lips into a thin line and nodded.

"Look, if we are going to work together I think we should start on the right foot," she suddenly said.

"I agree," John said.

"I've never lost a partner…" she watched his reaction and changed her words. "Sorry. I don't really know how you feel right now. I've heard really nice things about Agent Reyes and even thought the prospect of working on The X-Files is intriguing, I'd give it all away if that meant she could come back."

John nodded at her comforting words.

"But in the meantime, I'd like it if you got to know me better before you lash your anger at me. After that, if you still don't like me, well, then just be my guest."

He kind of smiled at that slightly, glad to have a moment of ease after a hell of a week. "M'sorry," he said.

"No harm done," she replied. "Well, nice to meet you, Agent Doggett."

"Same here," John said as he shook her hand.

"I'll see you tomorrow, bright and early."

"See 'ya," John said and watched her go.

He let out a sigh and ran his hands through his hair. He couldn't really jump to any conclusions after this first meeting, but at least she wasn't down right unlikable. The last thing he needed was an antagonistic partner.

He walked over to his desk and called the guys upstairs so they'd help him with the search on Bonsall. Three hours later, he had an entire biography. As he had suspected, Michael Bonsall wasn't his real name, Ted Schiller was. Born and raised in Virginia, parents dead, and one sister who lived in Maryland.

"Bingo," John said out loud.

"What's the prize?"

John looked up to see Scully standing there with the first smile he had seen in a while.

"Got Bonsall's profile," John said triumphantly.

Scully nodded and waited as he made a couple of phone calls to Skinner and Kersh about Bonsall. Then he moved over to the fax machine to send Bonsall's picture and profile to some of the police stations around the area.

Watching him do this, he looked almost excited about his findings, as if he had already solved the case.

"I talked to Skinner, he told me you have a new partner," she finally said.

"Yeah," John said absentmindedly.

"Who is it?" Scully asked.

"Kate. Kate Di something or other," John said. He hit a couple of buttons and the fax machine began to work. "Anyway, she seems nice."

"She does?" Scully asked.

He looked up at her. "Yeah, why?"

Scully took a deep breath and leaned her body against Monica's desk. "Nothing, just... Be careful."

"Why?" John asked.

Scully just shook her head, feigning innocence.

"You're tellin' me not to trust her?" he asked.

"I'm telling you to sleep with one eye open," Scully replied.

John thought of that for a moment. He heard stories of Mulder and Krycek and the way Krycek had been sent to derail Mulder. But that just seemed too much. So he shrugged his shoulders. "Nah."

Scully crossed her arms in front of her and raised on eyebrow. "Maybe. But still, be careful"

He nodded, wordlessly thanking her for the advice. The phone on Monica's desk rang and Scully waved a hand in the air to let him know she'd answer it.

"Scully."

John lowered his head and an eerie feeling washed over his body, going up and down his spine. Would they really send someone in to side track him? Why?

"Are you sure?"

He looked up at Scully. All color had gone off her face and she looked like she had just seen a ghost.

"What?" he asked, rising up.

Scully looked at him for a second and then forward. "Okay. Thank you." She hung up the phone, but couldn't seem to look at John in the eyes.

"What is it?"

She took another deep breath. "John." Her voice was cracking, so she cleared her throat. "They… they found her body."


To be continued…