Mulder's night had been disturbed by a rapid, insistent knock on his apartment door. The pounding was relentless, accompanied by muffled voices on the other side.

"Mulder! Open up!" The voice was unmistakable—it was Frohike, and he wasn't alone. Mulder could hear Langly and Byers in the background, all three of them sounding distressed.

Half-asleep, Mulder stumbled from his sofa to the door, fumbling with the lock, cursing as he nearly tripped over his own feet. His groggy mind raced, piecing together questions he couldn't yet articulate. It wasn't like the Gunmen to show up like this.

Just as he reached the door, he noticed a small slip of paper on the floor. He stooped to pick it up, grumbling to himself. *Dammit, I really need to get a handle on this place* he thought, barely registering the note as he tucked it into his pocket.

Finally, he yanked the door open, squinting against the dim hallway light. Frohike, with a grim look on his face, was the first to speak.

"We were listening to the police radio," he said urgently.

Mulder blinked, trying to clear the fog from his brain. "That's a felony," he muttered. "You guys really shouldn't be doing that."

Frohike's face darkened further. "There was an anonymous call from Scully's apartment… calling for an ambulance."

Mulder's eyes sharpened, his pulse quickening. The sleep was already leaving him.

Frohike swallowed, looking uncharacteristically shaken. "She… she slit her wrists."

Mulder stared at Frohike, his mind reeling, unable to fully process what he'd just heard. His voice came out in a half-whisper, barely steady. "Are you sure? Who called? Which hospital did they take her to?"

Byers stepped forward, his usual calm edged with worry. "The call came from a man, but… it wasn't your voice, so…" He hesitated, glancing away. "They took her to Georgetown Memorial."

Mulder didn't waste another second. He turned abruptly, grabbing his shoes and coat, already slipping them on with quick, frantic movements. "Let's go."

He pushed past them, his heart pounding with a terrible mixture of urgency and disbelief. Behind him, the Gunmen exchanged brief looks, then hurried after him.

At the hospital, Mulder moved through hallways with single-minded determination, his eyes dark and intense as he flashed his FBI badge at anyone who dared to stand in his way. A nurse at the front desk hesitated, stammering something about visiting hours, and he leaned forward, his voice dropping low. "You don't want to keep me from her."

Another flash of the badge, a low-voiced demand, and finally, they relented, leading him down a long corridor to her room.

He stepped inside and closed the door quietly behind him. Scully lay still on the hospital bed, her face pale against the stark white sheets. Her wrist was bandaged, an IV drip secured in her arm, and she looked small, almost fragile—a word he'd never once associated with her before. The sight stopped him cold. His pulse thudded heavily as he approached her bedside, the reality of what had happened settling in with a kind of surreal weight.

Why?* The question rose up in his mind, fierce and raw. Things had been hard—God knew they'd both been through enough pain and loss to stagger anyone—but she had been… surviving. Her cancer had gone into remission. She'd faced Emily's death with a stoic strength that he could barely fathom. She'd even managed to cope, as far as he knew, with the news of her infertility, refusing to let it overshadow her life. Work had been steady, fulfilling, even; and between the two of them, things had never felt closer, like an unspoken understanding bound them even in the darkest moments. They hadn't acted on their attraction, but he knew she felt it, too.

So why?

He felt a wave of anger at himself, frustration for not seeing any signs, for not being there when she had reached whatever point had pushed her here. He reached out, his hand hovering just over hers, as if afraid touching her would somehow make this real.

"Scully," he whispered.

Mulder barely registered the doctor's approach until she cleared her throat softly, bringing him out of his reverie. He turned, his face a mixture of exhaustion and worry.

"Agent Mulder?" she asked quietly. At his nod, she offered a small, reassuring smile. "I wanted to let you know that she was never in any real danger. The cuts are superficial; they're not deep enough to have caused serious harm."

Mulder frowned, glancing back at Scully. "You're saying… she didn't mean to do it?"

The doctor's expression turned thoughtful. "Well, she's a trained physician. If she had truly intended… harm, she would have known how to make it lethal. What's strange is that we found sedatives in her system—a high dose, one strong enough to make it difficult for her to have done this herself."

Mulder's brow furrowed deeper, the weight of the words pressing down on him. "So, what… are you saying someone else did this?"

The doctor hesitated, as if choosing her words carefully. "The cuts… they're almost too precise, too straight. They don't resemble self-inflicted wounds. Typically, a person attempting to cut their own wrists doesn't make such a controlled incision, especially not with sedatives in their system." She shifted, glancing at Scully. "The paramedics found her alone in her apartment. Whoever placed the call… well, there was no sign of them by the time help arrived."

Mulder's jaw clenched as the implications hit him. He looked back at Scully, the weight of the situation sinking in. This might not have been a suicide attempt—not in the way anyone would assume. Someone might have done this to her, staging it in a way that would make it look like she'd hurt herself, even going so far as to place the call.

His hands tightened at his sides, fury and fear twisting together in his gut. Whoever had done this had known her well enough to make it convincing.

As Mulder reached into his pocket to pull out his phone, his fingers brushed against the crumpled paper he'd picked up earlier. He paused, slowly pulling it out, realizing it was a note. His heart caught in his throat as he unfolded it and recognized Scully's handwriting, each careful stroke as familiar as her voice.

The words stared back at him, stark and raw.

Mulder*

I'm sorry. I can't keep doing this. I've lost too much because of this work, because of everything we've sacrificed. I need the hurt to end. I need peace. Please understand.*

The words blurred, and he had to blink to focus. His mind raced, trying to reconcile this final message with the woman lying in that hospital bed. Scully had always been so strong, resilient in the face of everything thrown at her. But here, in black ink, was a part of her he'd never fully seen—a part of her that had been drowning, while he'd been too focused on the darkness of the world outside to notice the shadows closing in on her.

He backed into the hallway, numb, the note still in his hand. The Gunmen were standing there, watching him in tense silence. Without a word, he handed them the note. Frohike took it first, his eyes scanning the page, then handed it to Byers, who looked stricken, and finally to Langly, who stood, mouth slightly open, stunned.

They exchanged glances, equally at a loss for words, and looked to Mulder, searching for something to say, something to offer him. But he could only stare at the note, the enormity of what it meant sinking into him like lead.

For a moment, they all stood there in silence, the reality of Scully's pain weighing heavily between them.

Mulder stood there, looking down at the note with a mixture of anguish and disbelief. He shook his head slightly, trying to reconcile the doctor's words with what he was reading. "The doctor said… she might not have done this by herself," he said slowly, his voice rough. "But this…" He held up the note, its heartbreaking words in her familiar handwriting staring back at him.

Byers reached out, putting a steady hand on his shoulder. "When she wakes up, you'll ask her about it, Mulder. You two will talk about it. If she really meant this… then she needs help. And if someone did this to her, then she needs protection." Byers' gaze was firm, giving Mulder something solid to hold onto in this moment. "Either way, you need to be here for her. We'll take care of things on our end. We'll let Skinner know, and… we'll get in touch with her family."

Mulder took a shaky breath, nodding as he tried to collect himself. "I think her mother is in California with her sister-in-law helping with the new baby. Bill Jr. is at sea right now, if I remember correctly." He sighed, thinking of Scully's family, and the strain this news would put on her mother.

"Then we'll start with Skinner," Frohike offered. "He'll know how to handle things and keep this under wraps until we know more."

Mulder nodded again, his gaze drifting back to Scully's closed door. "Thanks," he murmured, almost absently.

He could feel the Gunmen's presence around him, a quiet but reassuring reminder that he wasn't in this alone. But it was Scully lying in that hospital bed, and no matter what happened next, he knew he wouldn't rest until he'd found the truth—for both of them.

Mulder sat by Scully's bed, his eyes heavy, watching her sleep off the effects of the sedatives. The quiet beeping of the heart monitor was the only sound that filled the sterile room, but in his mind, a thousand questions echoed, unanswered and unresolved. His fingers drummed absently against his thigh, his thoughts drifting between the stark reality of what had happened and the nagging suspicion that there was something more—something darker—behind it all.

He kept coming back to the same thought: *What pushed her to this?* The woman lying in that bed had always been so strong. She had faced unimaginable loss, had battled against forces both external and internal, and yet now she was here, on the brink of something he couldn't understand. *Was it really an attempt to end her life? Or was it something else?*

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps, the familiar weight of someone entering the room. Mulder didn't need to turn to know it was Skinner. The tension in his shoulders was enough of a clue.

"Mulder," Skinner said, his voice low but with a sense of authority that had always made Mulder both respect and bristle. "What happened? What do we know so far?"

Mulder glanced at Scully once more, then turned toward Skinner, his expression weary but focused. "The doctor said the cuts on her wrists are superficial. They're not deep enough to have been fatal, but…" He hesitated, his gaze dropping to the crumpled note still clutched in his hand. "There's a possibility she didn't do it herself."

Skinner raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

Mulder exhaled sharply, rubbing his face. "She wasn't alone tonight. Someone called the ambulance from her place. No trace of them when the paramedics arrived. I found this note in her apartment."

He handed the note to Skinner, who read it quietly, his brow furrowing as he processed the words. The room felt colder as the silence stretched between them.

Skinner looked up after a long moment, meeting Mulder's eyes. "I assume you touched it?" he asked.

Mulder nodded, his throat tightening. "Me and the Gunmen."

"I'll still have it checked for fingerprints, DNA, whatever else we can find," Skinner replied, his tone professional, but his eyes were softening just slightly as they fell on Scully. He glanced back at Mulder. "Has something happened between the two of you?"

The question hit Mulder like a punch to the gut, and his expression shifted instantly to one of shock and disbelief. "Do you assume that if Scully attempts suicide, it's because of me?" His voice was sharp, the anger creeping in despite the grief swirling inside him.

Skinner didn't flinch. "I'm just trying to get the full picture, Mulder," he said calmly, meeting Mulder's gaze without backing down. "Also, when you constantly keep someone at arm's length, it can wear them down."

Mulder stood up abruptly, as though Skinner had struck him physically. The accusation hung in the air, unspoken but clear. *Was that what Skinner thought of him?* *Had he been responsible for driving Scully to this?*

"No," Mulder said, his voice rough with emotion. "You don't know what you're talking about."

Skinner didn't move, but his eyes softened ever so slightly. "I know you, Mulder. You push people away—especially her. And I'm not blind. I've seen the way she's looked at you. But there's only so long someone can keep pretending they're fine when they're not. You're not the only one who's been hurting."

Mulder closed his eyes for a moment, the weight of Skinner's words sinking deep. He wanted to argue, to deny it, but the truth was there, unspoken between them. He *had* kept Scully at arm's length. He *had* been afraid to face the unspoken bond that was growing between them. But none of that explained what had happened tonight—none of it explained why she'd ended up in that hospital bed with sedatives in her system and a note that spoke of goodbye.

"I don't know what happened," Mulder murmured, more to himself than to Skinner. "But I'm going to find out."

The silence between Mulder and Skinner stretched, thick and uncomfortable. Mulder's eyes remained locked on Scully's peaceful form, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, while his mind churned, absorbing Skinner's words.

Skinner finally spoke, his voice flat but heavy with implication. "You know that if we can't prove this was done to her… she's out of the Bureau. People who attempt suicide—"

Mulder's stomach tightened, the weight of Skinner's statement sinking into him. He knew the rules, the cold, hard policies that governed the FBI. Mental health, especially something as severe as a suicide attempt, was unforgiving. If this was deemed a suicide attempt and there was no evidence of foul play, Scully would be discharged from the Bureau in an instant. She'd be stripped of everything—the work, the identity she had built for herself.

Mulder's gaze remained on her, a flicker of something deep in his chest that he didn't have the words for. He inhaled slowly, trying to piece together his thoughts, both professional and personal.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low but steady, as if weighing the significance of what Skinner had said. "While this would be a huge blow to our work—and to her career," he said, pausing for a brief moment, *thinking* about the loss—the impact on both their professional lives—"at least… she's still around."

His words carried more than just professional concern. It wasn't just about the X-Files, or even the Bureau—it was about her. Scully had always been more than just a partner. She was the person who grounded him, who challenged him, and in some ways, who saved him. The thought of losing her—whether professionally or… in any other way—was a void he didn't think he could face.

Skinner, standing just a few feet away, watched him carefully. "I know. But you also know how this works. If there's no proof, we lose her."

Mulder turned slightly to look at Skinner, his expression hardening. "We won't lose her. Not like that. I'll find the proof."

Skinner nodded, a silent agreement between them, but the tension in the room remained. No one would have said it out loud, but both of them understood the stakes. Scully's life—and her future—was in the balance. Mulder would move heaven and earth to keep her safe, even if it meant battling the very institution they both worked for.