Why would you want to remember? You can't tell me you're happier now, because you recall your life. I saw it all. So much pain. Why would you want to struggle, so long, and hard, to get that pain back?
Because it's mine…
Oh, the pain was his alright. The ongoing flow of vivid memories, both pleasant and sorrowful, left his body strained, his head spinning and his soul shattered.
Suddenly he doubled over with pain, as gruesome visions of explosions and wounded soldiers screaming in pain, running amok, assaulted his brain. Then everything went black.
Doggett found himself lying face down on a cold wooden floor of some shabby motel room, somewhere on the outskirts of Mexico. He'd just had another flashback, this one so forceful and intense that he must have crashed straight down like a ten-tone hammer.
This time it was Beirut, 1982…or was it 3….? He still had trouble recalling important dates and numbers. He was sure he used to remember the exact number of fellow Marines who never got to go home after the bombings in Lebanon, never got to see their families again, teach their children how to ride a bike, see their favorite baseball team kick some Indian butts...
He supposed he was the lucky one: lucky to survive that day and return home in one piece with a shiny Marine Corps Commendation Medal. Lucky to have had a home to return to in the first place.
The irony of it all, considering the pitiful state he was currently in, wasn't lost on him. He'd probably manage a sad chuckle at the thought, if it wasn't for the head-splitting pain overriding his system.
Overcome by a sudden jolt of sorrow, he fond the soothing coldness of the floor quite welcoming. What was the point of getting up, anyway? He felt perfectly fine plastered to the ground, his slender frame almost coalescing with the dusty parquetry. He had half a mind to curl up in a fetal position and stay that way for the rest of the day, his usual though guy act be damned in the gloomily-discrete confines of the hotel room.
No! Get up soldier! You're an ex-Marine, ex-NYPD cop, and a goddamn FBI agent for Christ's sake! Get your skinny ass off that fuckin' floor right now!
Funny how his inner voice reminded him of his former drill sergeant.
What's next John? You gonna tell yourself to clean the can with your own toothbrush? Goddamn it, this is ridiculous! Pathetic! Pull yourself together, John Doggett! You've been through worse! Now man up and get the flying fuck up!
Doggett's inner self-disciplining was interrupted by a soft knocking on the door.
"John?" he heard a soft, female voice calling his name.
Two more knocks, twice more forceful. His partner, Monica Reyes wasn't exactly known for her patience. Her persistence, though, was a whole different story.
"John, are you ok? Please, open the door."
Well, Johnny boy? You wanna get that door, or do you want her to kick it open and catch you lying on the floor like some kind of sick puppy?
"Coming" he croaked out, hoping his voice didn't reveal too much of his exhaustion.
He took a deep breath and slowly got up, his head still spinning from the rapid fall. His vision was a little blurry and trying to blink away his growing headache didn't seem to do the trick either.
Struggling to regain balance , John stumbled to the door. When he finally opened it, his tired, steely blue eyes were met with a very worried pair of brown ones. He didn't even try to act casual, but he'd be damned if he let her now about his little encounter with the wooden flooring. He was a man after all. He had his pride and he certainly didn't need anybody to fuss over him like he was some helpless chi…
"Oh my gosh, John! What happened?!" Monica asked, her alarmed tone making John inwardly cringe.
The question caught him off guard so he ended up staring at her bemused, unable to muster a coherent reply. Not that she gave him a chance to come up with one anyway, as she promptly took his hand, silently urging him to follow her, and gently sat him on the edge of his bed.
He was still confused about her odd behavior and briefly wondered if his partner possessed some sort of an ex-ray vision which allowed her to witness his pathetic moment of self-pity through the closed door.
Before he could even gather his wits again, she tentatively touched his left temple.
"You're bleeding" she informed him, raising her now blood-stained hand in front of his face. "Hold on, I'll get the first aid kit". Before he could protest, Monica hurriedly left his room, leaving the door open.
Uh oh. Busted! I guess the good ol' 'I'm fine' brush-off won't cut it this time.
In the blink of an eye, she was back, tending to his wound. Monica looked John over with concern. His handsome face was covered with cuts and bruises from the hellish experiences the Mexican cartel had put him through. His swollen left eye was turning various shades of purple, matching the ugly, bruised cut on his right cheek. Although John had already gotten some of the worst wounds mended by the FBI's medical team, Monica believed he should have been transported to the nearest hospital as soon as they arrested Caballero. Of course, John stubbornly insisted he was going to be fine, but it didn't take agent Scully's medical knowledge to realize he was in a terrible condition.
Monica wished she could take away all his pain, both physical and emotional, and make his world right again. Truth be told, she wanted to fix him ever since they meet in New York, working on his son's case…. She hated seeing him like that, all miserable, lost and looking like hell. Unfortunately, ever since she joined the X-Files unit, she witnessed him getting hurt on a regular basis.
How much more can this man take? she silently wondered, recalling his mental breakdown in the garage earlier that day. To say his life hadn't been a bed of roses would be an understatement of the century. As if losing his only son, going through a painful divorce, then being stuck in a shitty, dangerous and ungrateful job wasn't bad enough, his memories had been taken away from him, just to come back with full force and blow holes in the thin fabric of his soul once again.
"I know whatya thinkin' " his deep, raspy voice interrupted her musings.
Monica glanced at him, raising her eyebrows. "Hn?"
"That I look like hell" he clarified, "and that one day I'm gonna snap and play Russian Roulette… with myself".
Monica gasped at his morbid humor. "Don't you even say that, John!"
He just shrugged and gave her an apologetic smile. She, in return, gave him a stern look, but couldn't force herself to really be upset with him.
With a sigh Monica shook her head. "We should get you to a hospital" she told him gently.
"I'll be fine" he replied, brushing off her concern, "I just need some rest". As if to prove his point, he laid his head on the pillow and closed his eyes.
John hated hospitals as much as he hated doctors – with the exception of a certain red-haired scientist – and he'd sooner bounce around the room like some bloodied pinball than spend a night surrounded by a bunch of intrusive quacks. Besides, GOD he needed sleep.
You know Johnny boy, if she sets her mind on it, there's no way in hell you're not going to that hospital tonight. Use diversion!
"Mon…how did you find me?" he asked tiredly, his eyes still closed.
"It's a long story, involving bribery, intimidation and physical violence" she explained.
"That's nice" he mumbled, exhaustion taking over, making him semi-conscious now.
"I know you'd do the same for me" she added, placing her hand over his and giving it a gentle squeeze.
He forced himself to open his eyes and look at her thoughtfully. "I would" he confirmed. In return, she gave him a warm smile and nodded knowingly.
Of course he would have save her had the situation been reversed. Knowing John Doggett, he'd terminate half the town just to bring her home safe and sound.
John closed his eyes again, feeling his headache returning. He really needed a good night's sleep, but oddly enough, he didn't really want Monica to leave just yet, as her presence seemed to have a calming effect on him.
Maybe some of his most treasured memories would come back to him in his dreams? Maybe he would dream about Luke, recall all the details he needed to know about his beloved son: his laugh, his favorite toy, his first day at school….
"Mon…" John started, then hesitated for a moment. "Did you… um… did you get to know Luke before….?"
"No" she quickly replied, unable to hide the sadness in her voice, "unfortunately I didn't".
"I just thought that maybe if someone could talk to me about him, I'd remember more…" he admitted.
"I'm sure all your memories will come back eventually" she said, trying to sound reassuringly.
Of course that was a double-edged sword, she realized, as all his good memories would go hand in hand with the most agonizing ones. And she had already witnessed the ugliness of the knowing, when painful realization had washed over him in that wretched garage, brutally ending his blissful ignorance. Except it hadn't been so blissful in the first place.
John didn't need to see Monica's somber expression to know what was going through her head. "I'll take the bad as long as I remember the good" he said with conviction, repeating the very same comment he'd made earlier that day.
"I know" she whispered, gently stroking his cheek.
She stayed by his side for another fifteen minutes, patiently waiting until his breath evened out and sleep finally took over him, then got up to leave his room.
"Sweet dreams John" she quietly said, gently closing the door behind her.
Author's note: This is my first X-files fic and I'd really appreciate feedback. I'm a huge John Doggett fan and "John Doe" is by far my favorite episode of the series. Makes me cry my eyes out every time I watch it. Please let me know what you think :)