When Doggett woke for the second time in two days next to Scully on her couch he knew that he couldn't go on like this. The quicker he got used to life alone the better. What else could he do? As he looked at Scully still sleeping, he got up softly and went into the kitchen, he figured he make his way around easily enough without having to ask where the coffee and cups were kept. So he did. He busied himself in the kitchen, but all it took was two minutes for him to lose it, the coffee cup he had been holding fell to the ground and he couldn't handle his failures all staring him in the face.

He looked at the mess he had made and started trying to clear it away, but instead all he could do was cry again, his vision blurred and he cut his finger, he didn't notice nor care as he continued to pick up the broken pieces of china. Obviously the smash had woken both Mulder and Scully, and they appeared in the kitchen together, Mulder placing an appreciative arm around Scully and kissing the top of her head, he was lucky he thought, the woman he loved was still here.

Doggett looked up at them and automatically Scully took the role of doctor looking at the wound and being a healer, and Mulder cleared away the rest of the broken cup. The last thing they wanted was for William to hurt himself on sharp pieces lying around on the floor when he played with his toys. Mulder looked at Scully attending to Doggett's cut and he wished that things were so different for all of them.

Through the night he had even wished that he had never found out about Reyes being his half sister, if he hadn't maybe none of this would have happened. But there was nothing he could do about that now, right. He'd done what he thought he was supposed to do; there was no going back. Doggett looked up at him and he managed to compose himself as Scully informed him his cut wasn't deep and would not require stitches. The last place any of them wanted to be was a hospital.

"I'm sorry Mulder, it just slipped right through my fingers."

"It's ok, it's only a coffee cup."

"I shouldn't even have been going in your things anyway." Scully patted his arm.

"It's not important John."

"It's important to me!" Mulder didn't like Doggett losing his temper with Scully; it brought out primal urges to inflict pain upon anyone that would dare raise their voice to her. But he needn't have worried, it was a split second before Doggett turned and apologised for his anger.

"I need to get out of here, I need to go home." He stood up and before anyone could object he was out of the door and out of their reach. Scully stood up from the table and turned to Mulder as he walked over to her.

"Do you think he'll be ok?"

"Honestly? No. No I don't. If it were me and I lost you, well I'd... I just couldn't do it." Scully smiled briefly before remembering how horrific this all was. She rested her head on Mulder and again he held her close. Somehow the touch of one another helped with the pain. What if they were in Doggett's position? It didn't bare thinking about.

When Doggett got home the first thing he saw was Reyes' jacket hanging on the coat stand. He took it down from its peg and sat by the door holding it, holding her, to his chest. He was there a long time before the dog came bounding over. But even the dog knew something was wrong. Somehow a dog always knew, and as Doggett threw his arms around Oliver and held the dog close as he cried again he couldn't help but have thoughts that the only solution to this pain was to end his suffering, permanently.

He knew that he would never take his own life. He had lost his son for crying out loud, he could grieve and move on, but it didn't make the immediate pain in his chest any easier. It was an impossible situation.

Finally Doggett stood up and still holding the jacket he walked through the house and could feel the emptiness take a hold of him. One thing he noticed was that he knew she wasn't with him. For all the teasing and ridiculing he did about Monica and her 'feelings' her way to communicate much further and stronger than any of the rest of them, he wanted his proof to be her. He wanted to sense that she was still with him, that her spirit was in their home that she would always be with him. He never realised what a romantic he was, but he couldn't just let her go and be done with it, where was she? Why wasn't she giving him a sign that she was ok?

This was his proof that he had been right all along. The only things you should believe in are the things that can be proven. There was no proof for him that a person's spirit lived on after their death, Reyes should have been the one to prove it to him, but she couldn't because there was nothing. And it angered him that she had wasted her time on this spiritual crap, and it worried him to think about where her soul really was.

As he put food down for the dog and opened the door so that he was free to run in and out of the house when he pleased, Doggett sank into the couch in the living room. His favourite picture of Monica was in one hand, and in the other a glass of bourbon. He didn't even usually keep alcohol in the house, but he had been given this bottle a long time ago and it had been maturing at the back of the kitchen cabinets. Now was as good an excuse as he was going to get to allow himself to be absolutely smashed.

The picture of Monica symbolised everything he loved about her, or at least it made him think about all the things he loved about her, and he didn't like the idea that he was going to have to let all of that go. The thought that he would get over this and move on with his life made him feel like the worst traitor in the world. Getting a divorce and loving someone else was one thing, but losing the woman you love to death and finding someone else seemed like such a betrayal, he loved Monica and he always would. There would never be anyone else.

As the house grew dark Doggett didn't care for any lights or to draw the curtains. Oliver had settled by his feet knowing not to get onto the couch unless invited, but Doggett hadn't even noticed the dog enter the room. The alcohol he had consumed had taken a strong hold on him and he didn't notice anything. When the phone rang he ignored it, he didn't think he could answer it even if he wanted to, his body was stuck to the position he had held for the entire day drinking more than half of a bottle of bourbon.

When the answer machine clicked on, a familiar voice began to speak and Doggett couldn't quite place it through the banging in his head. The rhythmic thuds had made his thoughts less conscious, but now he wanted to figure out who was leaving him a message. He looked over to the machine and tried to focus on it, he could see the number of messages said seven, seven messages? And then he got it. The voice on the phone was Reyes' dad.

Doggett leapt out of his seat scaring the dog half to death and grabbed the telephone desperately trying to stop the regurgitating feeling in his stomach.

"John is that you?"

"Yes, sir, I'm sorry, I was in the bathroom."

"John, have you received the messages I left? I thought you'd have called by now, I thought you'd have been concerned."

"I'm not sure I understand sir, I haven't listened to my messages."

"Oh my... well then you don't know... we saw it on the news last night and we've been trying to call you ever since. Mrs Reyes had Monica transferred after you left the hospital the other day because she had a bad feeling about Washington, we're in Mexico. Monica's fine John, she's with us. Did you hear what I said? John?" John heard every word, but all he could do was sit down on the floor and cry again, the dog came over to him and lay on his lap. Suddenly Doggett was a new believer.