Rating: PG

Summary: I finally got to kill somebody. Blue Monday turns black.

Spoilers: I don't think the funky poaching one counts.
 

It's snowing, not terribly hard, but enough that I'm grateful that Frohike has elected to play chauffeur in this case.

"Where to?" Our designated driver inquires.

"Wheaton." Langly indicates.

"What, Maryland? Jesus." Frohike shakes his head.

"Hey, we go to Maryland all the time!" Langly protests.

"Yeah, to go to Mitch's, and not usually in this kind of crap!" In spite of his protests, Frohike heads towards the bridge, but turns off before we can get there.

"Where the fuck are we going?" demands a very testy Langly.

"You wanted to see Joan, right? Well, see her now, before we head up into the hinterlands," Frohike has made it clear that if he's driving, he gets to pick the itinerary.

"Okay." This change of plans is not bothersome to Langly. Anything else, and there would probably have been tantrum royale today. But this is Joan, and I know he wants to see her.

I hope her condition has been upgraded. As of this morning, she was still listed as fair, and the fact that she had not been upgraded in nearly 24 hours disturbs me.
 

Jo is still with Joan when we enter in the room. Joan appears to be asleep, but our arrival causes her to stir.

I've seen corpses look better.

"Little one, is that you?" Her voice is weak, but she sounds pleased that her brother might be in the pack traveling into her room.

"Hey, Joanie. How're you doing?" Kid brother heads over and gently hugs big sister. She gives a thin, wan smile.

"Tired. You, little one?"

"Okay." Jo moves out of the chair closest to her bed and accedes it to Langly. She says hello to all of us. I don't think she got much sleep last night; she definitely looks ready for a nap. She then motions to Frohike that she'd like to speak to him alone for a few moments, and they exit.

I give Joan a quick kiss on the forehead, and Byers tells her he hopes she'll be feeling better soon.

I think she wants to be with her brother, though. This is their time, and Byers and I, without saying anything, nod at one another and leave the room.
 

"What do you think?" I ask him.

He frowns slightly. "Hard to say. She needs to start producing new cells from the transplant, which won't happen immediately, so I'm not certain I'd put too much stock in her current condition."

"I hope it takes," I pray out loud.

"So do I. This is going to be very hard on Langly if it doesn't."

"Is this the end of the line? I mean, if this doesn't work..."

"Well, no, not exactly. She has a couple of options...high-dose chemotherapy has been used in some cases like this, although the results are inconsistent...and there's been some experimentation with fetal stem cells."

"You mean, cells from the umbilicals of aborted fetuses."

"Right. It's still an experimental treatment."

And not without controversy.

And it occurs to me that Joan might not consider this an acceptable option...

"I think the best thing is to be optimistic right now," Byers encourages. "We don't know yet. Let's not start planning for things that might never have to be dealt with. It seems we always have plenty on our plates to begin with." He smiles a little. "Ithink it best if we try to take things one at a time."

"Be nice to have the option," I sigh.

"Wouldn't it, though? Never seems to happen."

"Not in your lifetime or mine."
 

Joan is very tired. She is happy to have baby brother there, but she really doesn't have the energy...and neither does he. Maybe he'll change his mind about heading up to Wheaton. I could live without the trip right now...

Get real, Allison. When have you known him to change his mind about something like THAT?

Jo is relieved by an attractive Mexican woman, whom she introduces as Clara Rodriguez, one of Joan's schoolteacher coworkers. Clara, from the short meeting, seems to be kind and personable and sympathetic.

And since she's a schoolteacher, I don't worry about her ability to chase off interlopers.

As we all file out, Langly mutters crossly, "I'm gonna kill my nephew."

"What did he do now?"

"Ah, fuck, he's on this whole thing of this wouldn't have happened had his mom not gotten near me again...you know, like AIDS is punishment for being homosexual sort of thing."

"That's utterly absurd."

"Tell me about it. But Joanie's been around these assholes so long, she actually has it engraved in her brain that they might be right about something...fuck."

"I think Julie is pretty good at keeping her straight on that."

He shakes his head. "I dunno...Julie's...I'm not sure what she's doing is such a good idea after all."

My sentiments exactly, but I've voiced mine in times past. I don't need to bash anyone over the head with what I think.

"I mean...seems to me, I mean, me and you, we laugh at these jokers and all, think their ideas are weirder than Mulder's-"

"They ARE weirder than Mulder's. I never figured it to be possible, but they are."

"Yeah, but Julie grew up in this shit...who knows how much of it sticks on her? I mean, what if she really gets under the spell of her dad and his cronies again? I mean, I see what they do to Joanie, and it really hacks me, 'cause they're not helping her get better!" The last part of the sentence is issued in extreme anger.

"Hope she knows what she's doing," I say, taking his arm.

"You're not the only one."
 

"This is the place?" Frohike seems a bit skeptical. "And here I was thinking poor civil servant."

We've pulled into the long driveway of a classic Tudor home-no mansion, but pleasantly large, and even with the snow on the ground, it's obviously been well-tended and cultivated.

"Sheridan bought the place with his partner, I think. The one that died. And I think Sheridan took care of his money," Langly adds with a shrug.

"Any idea what sort of alarm system he has?" Byers inquires.

I didn't even think of that; having a security system in our home is so second nature now, I don't even contemplate it.

Langly shakes his head in the negative. He's making a really good show of being stoic, but I see him wincing quite a bit when he thinks we aren't looking. And he's limping a bit.

This better be quick.

Mostly because he's in lousy shape, but this little expedition is making me very nervous. These guys are accustomed, more or less, to engaging in what they refer to as 'funky poaching,' but I'm not well-versed in this area, and I'd like this experience to be over as rapidly as humanly possible.

Why did I even come?

Because he asked me to.

Jesus. I didn't even think about bailing once Frohike and Byers agreed to come. I could've and I should have.

It didn't even cross my mind.

Byers is the best-versed in security systems of the three, and he checks out wiring and other evidence of how to disable the alarm system. It takes about ten minutes, and the next challenge would be to get through the door.

"You wouldn't have keys, would you?" Frohike asks Langly, who's growing paler all the time. I just want to get out of here.

Allison Ruth Rausch Gerstein Langly, world's biggest chickenshit, on a housebreaking expedition. The irony of it isn't lost on me.

"Hey, I'm like his employee, he's not gonna give me keys. Hell, I didn't even know where he lived till I hacked Personnel," Langly whines.

"I had to ask," Frohike shrugs at him as he begins the task of picking the locks.

And there are a lot of them. From all indications, Sheridan has five on the front door.

We've still got him beat-there are only five on the back door, but there are seven on the front, and seven for the office.

Frohike's not bad at the task-he's obviously not a virgin at this, but it's still taking longer than I would like. I'm trying to keep cool, but I'm scared.

Oh yeah.

And I didn't exactly dress for funky poaching. I've got on this long broomstick skirt and even with leggings underneath, the wind is cutting through and icing my legs.

I really need a cigarette, but I don't think smoking would be a wonderful idea right now.

Finally, the front door gives. Frohike steps in first, then Langly and me, and Byers picks up behind us.

The place is incredibly clean. I don't think our house will EVER look like this. And the decorating scheme looks like something out of Architectural Digest.

"Your boss's orientation is obviously visual," observes Byers, who nods approvingly at the décor.

We check around. God, this is amazing. No coffee mugs piling up in the sink, no backpacks thrown on the floor, no jackets strewn over chairs, no newspapers all over the coffee table, no videos out of their jackets.

This place is about as unlike our home as you can get.

The living room is immaculate, well-done, but nothing stands out. There's a door off the downstairs hallway, with a small den in it, and it, too, is perfectly in order.

And men live here?

Well, one now.

Still...I've seen what one man can do. If Langly could ever remember to toss something in the laundry basket instead of on the floor, I'm not sure my heart could handle the shock.

The kitchen is just as uninhabited looking as the rest of the house. I wonder where this guy puts the empties; we tend to let them pile up on the counter until there's no room left, then we count the damages assessed and only then do we take them to recycling.

"Basement or upstairs?" Frohike looks to us.

"Let's try downstairs first," suggests Byers.

The basement is locked, which strikes me as really odd, but the reason why becomes obvious once Frohike manages to undo the lock.

This place makes the TMB offices look positively low rent.

I mean, this is like the control room for pod people.

Jesus Christ.

I can see the little-boy looks of 'wow' as they scan the goods; all three of them appreciate good toys, and from what they're saying, Sheridan has the best.

"He who dies with the most toys, wins." Frohike shrugs, taking in the scenery. "Well? Should we take a look?" He's referring to the numerous computers about the room.

"I think we should check the upstairs first," Byers advises.

"Okay, why don't you and Allison check the upstairs, and we'll start on this. Langly?"

I think Langly's just grateful to sit down; not that sitting down is very comfortable right now, but it beats trying to keep upright.

"I don't think you're going to find much up there, but yeah, you're right, should be checked out," Frohike adds.
 

The upstairs appears to have three bedrooms over the house, and then, down a long hallway, is a closed door that probably leads to a master suite.

"Do you smell something?" Byers asks me.

I shake my head in the negative. Years of being around the courts, the jails, and med students have killed most of my olfactory receptors.

"It smells like almonds...and something else..." he hands me a handkerchief.

"Do I have something on my nose?" I ask.

"No...but I don't like the looks of this. Or, more specifically, the smell," Byers tries to make light of it, but he's clearly worried.

The door is locked, but now I can smell something, and man, it's bad.

Byers asks me if I have a nail file. I tell him no, I don't file my nails (useless when you bite them, and right now, I'm doing a lot of that). He pulls a credit card from his wallet. Brooks Brothers. It figures.

He's finally able to jerk the door open, and we find Sheridan.

He looks to be in repose from a distance, but as we inch in closer, and the odor intensifies, we know we're not among the living here.

Shit.

"I think he took cyanide. Or was given it." Byers says softly. "Go back downstairs, Ally."

I hand him back his handkerchief and follow his instructions willingly. I notice he uses it.
 

I can still haul ass when I need to.

And this time I needed to.

Langly and Frohike are examining his file systems when I get back downstairs.

"Uh...guys?"

"What's up?" Langly turns to me. He must see the horror on my face, because his immediately moves from concern to total alarm.

"We found Sheridan." I feel my knees melting into liquid.

"He's here?" Langly looks very surprised.

"Yes...and no. He's not exactly with us anymore." I'm hyperventilating now, trying not to scream or cry.

"What the-" Frohike jumps up. "Oh, shit."

"No way." Langly doesn't want to believe this, and I don't blame him.

I sure as hell don't want to believe it.

Sheridan was a friend. I didn't know him well, but he was good to Langly, and I did enjoy the time I spent with him...

Horrible to think of people you care about in the past tense.

"Way," I tell him, and I feel my voice cracking.

"Where's Byers?" he demands.

"Right here." He'd crept back down on little cat feet. "He's definitely dead." Turns to Langly, and says gently, "I'm sorry, Langly."

"OH FUCK!" Langly lets out a pained wail. I head over to him and wrap my arms around him, and he buries his face in my chest.

"Did anyone touch anything without their gloves on?" Byers had issued all of us latex before entering-and I'm telling you now, I'm glad that man plans ahead. We'd touched nearly everything in the house, and our prints would be everywhere...

Oh God.

I don't think I did.

"Do you have fingerprints on file, just in case we forgot something?" Byers asks me.

"Yeah...in California...when I was reporting, you had to be fingerprinted. Officer of the court thing and all that."

"Okay. But you had your gloves on," Frohike said.

"I put them on in the car..." I'm starting to freak out now.

"Then I doubt you touched anything," Byers is trying to reassure me.

"Okay, here's what we do," Frohike instructs. "We need to make backups of all his files."

"What?!" I'm incredulous. There's a dead guy upstairs, and these dudes are talking about raiding his computers?!

"Look, it could be important. Byers, what do you think? A suicide?"

"Looks like one."

"No fucking way!" Langly protests. "Not Sheridan. I mean, he had bad times, but he was always having bad times, and he got through it all. No way. Not him."

"Any note?" Frohike's trying to stay rational, I realize. Distance himself from what's going on around him.

Might be one time his training in 'Nam would come in handy.

"This." Byers hands Frohike a folded slip of paper. "Typewritten, probably on one of the printers here. The fonts look to be HP."

I quickly scan the room. He's got three HP printers.

"No signature." Frohike examines it. "Weirdness. Okay, we take it with us. Langly, start backing up. Now."

Langly looks shell-shocked. It's been a bad day all around for him, and it's not getting better.

There are four computers in the room. Byers takes one of the empty ones. Frohike hands me a pile of zip disks, and tells me to start backing up from a particular directory tree.

I'm not computer literate like these guys, but I can do backups.

"Let's work fast, people," Frohike admonishes us. "We'd like to get out of here as quickly as possible."

"What about Sheridan?" I demand.

"When we get back to the offices, we make a 911 call. It won't be traced. We do it here, we'll have the cops crawling all over us. And I don't think we want that right now. We did just break into a dead man's house, you know."

"I know that!" My nerves are really getting strung hard. I just want to get my ass out of here, and theirs, too.

I wish to God we weren't here.

Right now I want to be in my own home, tucking my husband back into bed, pouring myself a drink, and forgetting that this ever happened.

I REALLY need a cigarette.

I pop more diskettes into the zip drive, back up whatever's there-makes no sense to me, and there's tons of it-but that's up to the three of them, and probably Michael, too.

It seems like three hours, but Frohike assures us that it's only been about twenty minutes when we've exhausted the systems. We boot down, turn everything off, turn out the lights, reactivate the alarm system, relock the doors, and Frohike dumps the pile of disks into my purse.

I don't want to hear any comments EVER again about the suitcase I haul around.

They should be grateful.

"It's snowing a little harder," Byers observes as we're leaving. "That should cover any tracks we left within the hour."

"So in two hours, we make the call," Frohike decides.

"Guys, I'd like to point out that he's DEAD!" I'm outraged by the clinical treatment of this.

"And he's not going to get any more alive if we call sooner," Frohike retorts. I hear a heavy sigh from him. "Allison, if you want to smoke, go ahead." I think I hear him mutter something to the effect of I'll be calmer that way.

I don't care. I light up, take a hit, and Langly takes it out of my hands, takes a hit as well.

I suspect at this point, if Frohike and Byers smoked, we'd all be sharing.
 

After a slippery trip over the bridge, we're back. I don't think I've ever been so relieved in my life.

"C'mon, people, there's work to do," Frohike admonishes us. Then he looks at Langly. "Not you. Go to bed. You look like hell."

"The inauguration was today," Langly whines.

"So get in bed, and find out what the French pundits are saying."

"I hate French TV." Langly's whining escalates.

"Then go to sleep. Those are your choices." Frohike has put his small feet down, and for some reason, we don't have it in us to defy him.

"C'mon, babe." I take his arm, and he leans into me, nearly toppling me over at first, but somehow I manage to steady both of us-no mean feat, since we're both shaking like jello in an earthquake.

Things like this almost make me miss the earthquakes, which are a regular feature of life in California.

And we used to consider them crises. Ha.
 

I help Langly get into some sweats, stuff him under the covers, and hand him two painkillers.

He looks as if he's at the point where the pain gets so bad, you just shut down.

And I don't think it's from the surgery. There's a lot of discomfort in a bone marrow extraction, but I think right now, the shock of losing Sheridan, while not quite real, is enough to have pushed him out into the agony zone.

I ask him if he wants me to stay with him, and he just nods a little. We flip on the news, keeping the volume low, and I stroke his soft hair, trying to calm the trembling.

The gesture calms me some, but he continues trembling. I lie down next to him and snuggle gently against his non-tender side.

I just stroke him until the Vicodins begin to work their magic a little.

He turns to me, eyes bleary, and just says, "Shit."

It's only beginning to sink in. And it's not going to be pretty when it does.
 

Six o'clock, and Miranda comes in from choir practice. Her face is bright, rosy from the cold.

"Hi Mom!" She calls out.

"Hi, sweetie. How was your day?"

"Fine. How about you?"

I want to start laughing hysterically when she asks me this. How WAS my day, anyway?

Instead, I just tell her, it was fine.

Well, it could have been worse. At least I got home before she came in.

Imagine that. All this and home before dinnertime.
 

I check on Langly after serving dinner to Byers, Frohike, Miranda and myself. He's asleep, thank God. I kiss the unshaven face, pull the comforter over his shoulders, and he sinks down into the pillows, as if grateful for the respite.

It's finally quiet in the kitchen-Frohike and Byers have returned to the offices and Miranda has retreated to the dungeon for homework and endless phone calls. I pull out my own textbooks-I have got to stay caught up, no matter what kind of weirdness falls into my world.

Except I'm not sure weirdness even begins to cover this.

And I remember I have figures to run for work, and that information has to be returned.

Fuck. And Langly's out for the count, and I want him to stay that way.

At that moment, my reverie is interrupted again. This time it's Michael.

"Hey, Ally, can I get something to eat?"

"Sure. There's mac and cheese left over from dinner. And some salad. Michael, can you do me a favor?"

"Guess so. What's up?"

"Well, I need some figures run for work...Langly was going to do it, but he's kind of out of it right now...I know you're busy, but would you mind-"

"No problem." He did, after all, write a stat package for me, and of all the ones I've used, I like his best. "Kelly's not here yet."

"No. She's usually home by now, but I haven't checked my voice mail."

"Can you check it?"

"Sure." I pick up the phone, dial the service, and enter the password.

There's a pile of messages in there.

There's one from Kelly. She has a 7:00 appointment at a clinic in Georgetown, and she doesn't think she'll be back until about 9, and I didn't say if I had to be anywhere and she's sorry if she screwed up my evening...

I'm thinking, honey, there's no way you could have screwed up today more than it already was.

I pass this info to Michael, who visibly relaxes. "Good. She did it."

"Did what?"

"Made an appointment. I feel sorta bad, though, I said I'd go with her, but she knows I had to work till 7, and maybe she just wanted to get in right away, that's probably better."

The other messages come from Langly's co-workers. All of them are cryptic, indicating he needs to get in touch with them-nothing else said. Just to call ASAP.

Julie says her mother has been upgraded to good condition, and I breathe a heavy sigh of relief.

This is the first decent piece of news we've had all day.

And it only took until 7:45 at night to get it.

The Monday that refused to die takes on a whole new meaning, I think wryly.

END OF PART 60