TITLE: Beekeeper
AUTHOR: Maureen S. O'Brien
CATEGORY: S
RATING: PG
ARCHIVE: Yes, please.
SPOILERS: Gethsemane & Redux I preview.
KEYWORDS: X-Files/Sherlock Holmes crossover.
SUMMARY: Mulder goes to the Master for answers. 
DISCLAIMER: The X-Files folks belong to CC and 10-13, of 
course, and Holmes and Watson belong to "A Certain Gracious
Lady," Lady Jean Conan Doyle. But when I asked the characters 
to come out and play, and they all said they could.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: There is a long-standing tradition among
Sherlockians that the Master is immortal. It seemed fitting
that all that bee husbandry should be opposed by someone
more experienced in the field than Mulder. Anyone interested
in doing more with this idea than I have is invited to do so.
Also, there's a minor reference to a famous series of 
children's books. E-mail me if you find it....
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I drove furiously through the Sussex downs, making the White
Horse eat my dust, making my heart harder than the Long Man.
That beekeeping son of a bitch had been wrong for once, and
Scully was the one paying for it.

I made the final turn by inches and roared up the drive to
the cottage, stepping on the brakes only at the last moment.
I jumped out, slammed the car door, and stomped up the front
walk. I fingered the gun in my pocket. I'd get answers from
him one way or another.

Mrs. Hudson met me at the door with a stern look. "What are 
you playing at, Mr. Mulder? Why, you nearly ran over my
lovely border!" Her anger turned to worry. "You shouldn't
drive so recklessly. Are you trying to kill yourself?"

Her concern extinguished the anger that had kept me going. 
"I've already done that, ma'am," I said, infinitely weary.

Her arm swept around me. "You poor boy. Mr. Holmes hasn't 
come down for his breakfast yet. Why don't you sit down and
have some while I get him?"

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson, but I don't feel like eating right
now." Not with the image of Scully collapsing into Skinner's
arms running through my head. Guilt reminded me that Scully
depended on me. If I'd been caught speeding or smashed myself
against a stone wall, who would find her a cure? That smoking
bastard?

She ignored this; just sat me down at the table and firmly 
laid a few platters down in front of me and began putting food
on my plate. "Everyone has to eat, Mr. Mulder. Even you." She 
tsked at me. "So thin. Your young lady must worry about you as 
much as you do about her."

I smiled at her reiteration of this common fallacy. "Scully is
my partner, not my 'young lady'."

"How would I know that? Five years you've known her, and you 
haven't brought her here once. You know Mr. Holmes wants to 
meet her."

I looked down and mumbled some excuse. I'd brought Phoebe here
once, while I still loved her. She hadn't realized who she was
meeting; she had also shown some of her less lovable traits.
Mr. Holmes hadn't said a thing; he hadn't had to. 

On the drive back, I'd tried to clue her in. Somehow, the 
conversation convinced Phoebe that it would be a good idea to 
visit the grave of Arthur Conan Doyle, the literary agent she 
thought had actually written Watson's work.  Our conversation on 
the way about Conan Doyle, spiritualism, rapping and knocking, 
Houdini, and Doyle's epitaph "Steel true, blade straight" had 
resulted in one of the most unique experiences of my life. That 
hadn't made the day any less embarrassing to remember, though.

And when Blevins sicced a spy on me, I wasn't exactly eager to
lead her to the Master's door. I'd gone to him for help when
she was abducted, but even he could do nothing. After Scully'd
been returned, we'd been too busy. 

Yeah, right. The truth was that I didn't want Scully telling
him to his face that he didn't exist or was a fraud, and I 
didn't want to hear him saying something nasty back, because I 
couldn't respect anyone who didn't respect her. So I had kept 
them from meeting each other; it was a safety precaution, like 
not shaking nitroglycerine.

But I hadn't believed either. I had driven out to the Sussex
downs on nothing but a whim. Merriman Lyon (whatever happened 
to the man? had he finally retired?) had kindly given me the 
name and address of a friend whom he thought might be able to 
assist me, since he shared my interest in profiling and 
criminology. I had only thought of the Sherlockian connection 
when I got to the farm and saw all the beehives.

So I laughed at myself, took a couple pictures, and went out to
meet Mr. Sigerson, who was probably some kind of ex-Scotland
Yard guy with a sense of humor.

Wrong.
-----------------------------------------These need rewritten.

I looked up and realized I had sausage on my fork and in my mouth. 
I also felt a little bit better. Blood sugar, Scully would have
reminded me. I sighed and sipped the tea that had miraculously
appeared in front of me while I was having the Phoebe flashback.

I missed her. I missed her presence, her preternaturally serene 
face shifting back so often to the small fierce incredulity I 
managed to elicit from her in the first few minutes I knew her. 
Her penetrating blue eyes, and the way she could convey anything 
with them, from deep sympathy that would unlock the mouth of the 
most nervous witness, to a crushing contempt or a fierce hunger 
for vengeance that could intimidate serial killers and the most 
cynical criminals. I missed having her watch my back.

But I had to admit to a certain guilty sense of relief. It hurt 
me to see her so weak. I tried to give her work that would not 
tire her, like netsurfing for clues instead of doing the legwork. 
But she resented the implication that her body could fail us and 
pushed herself harder. It was nothing less than I would have 
expected from her; but it was like waking up to find my nightmares 
real.
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Savagely I slathered a scone in butter and jam. Samantha had only 
disappeared. My father was only murdered. Scully was being killed 
by inches, and it was killing me, too.

"Mulder, pass me the teapot, will you?"

My mouth was full, so I just passed it to Scully without a comment.
Then I realized what I'd just done and spluttered. She smiled 
tiredly and passed me a napkin -- well, a serviette. Unfortunately,
a bite managed to go down the wrong pipe. As I started to choke,
Scully rushed around the table with Heimlich on her mind. Luckily,
I managed to cough the bit out.

"Are you all right now?"

I nodded and tried to catch my breath.

She put her hand on my shoulder. "I didn't hear anything from you.
I was afraid Cancerman had caught on. Then I saw the name Hale on
the passenger manifest of your flight." She sighed. "You should
have used a different alias."

"It was different."

"Edward E. Hale instead of George?" She raised her eyebrow. "His
generation had to read 'The Man Without a Country' in school."

"I wouldn't worry, Scully." My lips twisted. "He obviously didn't 
pay any attention in class."

"Skinner told me where you were headed and the Gunmen helped me get 
out of the country. In case you're interested."

"Of course I'm interested. I'm just not surprised that you made it."

"Which is why you choked."

"No, I was surprised you got here in time for breakfast," I managed
to improvise. "Or that I didn't hear Mrs. Hudson interrogating you."

"The door was open. I just came in." The incredulous look crept onto
her face. "Our hosts have the same taste in pseudonyms as you do,
I see. A Mr. Sigerson and a Mrs. Hudson? On the Sussex downs? How 
much more noticeable can you be?"

A voice answered her from the other room. "You would be surprised 
how few members of the public come to see us. Of course, this farm
is a little off the beaten path."

Scully turned. She took in the white-haired man who stood before
her. She took a small breath. "Should I call you Mr. Sigerson or
Mr. Holmes?"

My jaw dropped. Scully had found something she wanted to believe.

"A student as well as a colleague of Watson, I perceive." He bowed
slightly. "Mr. Holmes will do, Dr. Scully. And if you slip into 
calling me just Holmes, I will not be offended. I am well aware that 
it is difficult to avoid familiarity with persons one has known, so 
to speak, since childhood."

Scully smiled. It was dazzling. Great. Just great. I needed to get
answers, and Scully was practically drooling over the Great 
Detective. She was going to be a lot of help.

"I am pleased to meet you at last," Holmes was saying. "Mulder has 
told us a great deal about you."

"All good, I hope."

"No," he said bluntly. "It was not good to hear that you had
contracted cancer."

Scully turned and gave me a look.

"However, Dr. Scully, as my continued existence on this Earth must
make evident, there are ways to defeat even time."

A stocky man came through the doorway. "The royal jelly compound 
does not defeat time, Holmes. It merely fights its effects on the
human body." He looked at Scully appreciatively, but with respect.
He bowed. "The formidable Dr. Scully, I presume."

"The overly kind Dr. Watson," she replied, charmed. "It's an honor 
to meet you, sir. So the rumors are true?"

"Oh, yes. Holmes' compound is difficult to make, but quite 
effective against what they call free radicals these days. We've 
found that related compounds have been just as effective against 
some fairly tenacious diseases, so for the last year or so Holmes 
and I have been trying to find one that would work against the 
MUFON sort of tumor. Based on our tests, we believe we have found 
one that will be your cure."

"Have you been working on smallpox cures as well?"

"Yes, and bee repellants."

"Good." Scully thought for a moment, then sighed. "All right. You
win. I'll try the compound, Doctor. But I want to see your test 
results first. And I'd like to look over your other projects while 
I'm here, if you don't mind."

Holmes made an expansive gesture. "Our laboratory is yours. But
first, let us try to cure you."

A few hours later, I was watching over Scully while she slept. 
When she woke, Watson would test her to see if the tumor had 
shrunk. For now, all I could do was wait and hope.

"Worrying yourself won't help her," Mrs. Hudson admonished me in a
whisper. 

I smiled at her ruefully. "I know. That doesn't mean I can stop. 
So tell me. Why would someone become the next best thing to 
immortal just to cook and clean up after those two?"

"Someone has to, Mr. Mulder. And I'm a very good cook." Her eyes
twinkled. "But that's not all I do for them." She handed me a file 
folder. "Here is some information on our friend with the lovely 
manicure. If you promise not to run off, I'll let you read about 
him. And later, you can use my account to send a message to those
three friends of yours."

I shook my head in wonder. "Mr. Hudson was a lucky man."
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I still wanted answers. But I would take the ones they were 
willing to give me, as long as Scully got her cure.

Because then she could help me get the rest.
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