She isn't answering. I've knocked twice now, but she doesn't answer.
Hesitantly, I knock again. No answer.
"Scully, it's me. I need to talk to you, please open the door!" I call. My voice sounded urgent and hurt even to my own ears, but she still doesn't answer. Worry pushes its way into my brain.
What if something happened to her?
Images of Scully lying unconsciously on the floor of her living room flood my brain. I feel panic rising up.
"Scully?" I call again, fear evident in my voice.
No answer.
My right hand wanders into my pocket on its own will and reappears holding a small shiny object. Her keys.
I remember the day we exchanged them. It stunned me that she trusted me that much. I haven't made use of the key much, I realize, as I open the door and let myself into the darkened apartment.
Even though I own a key I feel like an intruder, standing in her hallway and closing the door behind me.
I call out to her again but she isn't responding.
She isn't home. She should have been home an hour ago! Worry invades my mind again. Where is she? I know that she is probably somewhere safe. Maybe she drove to her Mom's, or maybe she's just driving around, clearing her head.
Maybe she needs to move in order to escape her demons for a while - god knows I do sometimes.
Somehow I'm sure, that she is alright. I believe that I could sense it when something happened to her. It's almost like I could feel her as a part of myself. How could I not notice when the most important part of me was being ripped out?
Slowly I walk into her living room, considering what to do while sitting down on her couch. Maybe I should just go home and call her later? No, the phone won't do. I have to talk to her in person. I decide to wait and turn on the light on the small table beside the couch.
Leaning back, I sigh and close my eyes. Suddenly it dawns on me, that a lot depends on the way this conversation goes. What if she just doesn't want me to be there for her? What if she has decided to leave me and spend her last days in peace, with her family and the few friends that didn't turn away from her because of her job, because of me?
I have to force myself not to think about that. I'm not sure I would be able to resist the tempting gun if I knew for certain that she *doesn't* need me.
After taking a deep breath, I open my eyes again, taking in my surroundings for the first time.
I've been here many times but I never took the time to look at Scully's apartment. For the first time I realize how nicely everything is decorated. How everything has its place. I smile involuntarily, imagining Scully's reaction if anyone dared to move anything. She'd go ballistic.
A leather-bound book catches my eye as I look down at the table. I recognize it immediately.
Scully's journal. The same one I found at the hospital back in Pennsylvania. Just like I did then, I find myself picking it up carefully and slowly running my fingers over the smooth surface.
She'd told me she wanted to throw it away. Obviously she hadn't. Maybe she never intended to and only told me so that I would stop asking her about it.
I put it back down, only to pick it up again after a few seconds. The temptation is overwhelming. Suddenly I realize what I'm holding in my hands. Scully's innermost feeling, her secrets, her fears. Everything she has been withholding from me.
Scully would probably kill me if she caught me reading her journal *again*. I'm still not sure why she didn't say anything about it the last time. Maybe she was just too tired to argue with me, both emotionally and physically.
Carefully I open the journal and skip through the pages. I stop at the part I had read in the hospital and re-read it. A lump forms in my throat and I can feel hot tears welling up as I remember how close I've been to losing her forever.
Blinking back tears, I turn the page. There is only one new entry. I know I shouldn't do this, but my eyes are drawn to Scully's neat handwriting on the page in front of me.
It's like her words beg me to read them. In fact, they do. The entry is addressed to me.
"Dear Mulder" it begins. So she obviously wants to share all these things with me. It hurts to see that she feels she can't tell me, but still it's eerily comforting to know that she wants to share her fears with me - even if it's only unconsciously.
I sigh and begin to read.