Two-Two-One-Ex-Eff (221XF)
Or: The Game? It's a Foot 
Author: MaybeAmanda (Amanda Wilde)
Email: maybe_underscore_a at rocketmail dot com 
Categories: Crossover (X-Files/Sherlock BBC) 
Word Count: ~3500 Rating: PG? Wow - maybe G even. 
Timeline: 2010 - so, post-IWTB (XF) & post series one (Sherlock BBC)
Spoilers: For IWTB a tiny bit and TGG a lot more. Archive: Sure. 
Provenance: I said I wasn't going to write this. So, instead, I did. 
I'm sooooo changeable!

Disclaimer II - Disclaimed With A Vengeance: Chris Carter invented M&S; Fox owns The X-Files. A.C. Doyle invented Holmes and Watson, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss turned them into Sherlock and John, and the BBC is involved in some nefarious way. No infringement intended.

Thanks & notes: At the end, or these headers will go on forever.

Summary: Scully visits the mortuary at Barts.

"And this," Dr. Hooper says, "is the - oh."

Scully comes to a stop just in time to avoid running into her tour guide. There are two men in the mortuary - three if you count the dead one on the slab that the two live ones are hunched over. The dead one is naked, save for a strategically placed rectangle of surgical draping; the live ones are wearing surgical gloves and tuxedoes.

Slightly odd, she thinks, but she's wearing an evening gown, as is Dr. Hooper, so not all that odd, not tonight anyway. Granted, she and Dr. Hooper aren't peeling the skin off anyone's foot, while the men in the tuxes appear to be doing just that.

The blond man looks up. "Oh, Molly, hi," he says. "Sorry, um, Lestrade called - and then we were just - and um - we just um - "His eyes narrow slightly. "Molly, are you all right?"

Scully looks at Dr. Hooper. No, Dr. Hooper is not all right. Dr. Hooper, who had been animatedly showing Scully around her department a few moments before is, in fact, green. Scully looks around for a chair to push Dr. Hooper toward before Dr. Hooper falls down, but there isn't one. "Molly?"

The blond man clears his throat pointedly, glaring at the foot- peeler. He's compactly built, this man, clearly not at home in his tuxedo, although it fits well. He's vaguely familiar, not in an 'I know you' way, but in an 'I know people just like you' way.

The other live man - the dark-haired one doing the actual foot- peeling - doesn't look up. "You said she'd be at the ceremony," he mutters.

The blond gives an exasperated sigh. "And yet, here she is."

Silence stretches for a brief eternity, then the dark haired man speaks.

"Right then, yes. I'm very sorry, Molly," he tells the dead man's foot. "I should have seen what he was about. I should have stopped him. I am attempting to stop him, and I will stop him. I hope you'll forgive me for all this, this bother and, and inconvenience. Eventually." All of it said with the enthusiasm and sincerity of a third-grader reciting his lines in a poorly-written Christmas pageant.

Then he does look up, gives Dr. Hooper an appraising glance. He frowns slightly, as if he doesn't like what he sees. "Tea, hot and strong and at least three sugars, four if you can stomach it." He waves, turns back to the corpse. "Now, Molly. Go!"

"Sherlock -" the blond man warns.

"Well, look at her. She hasn't eaten in at least three days in an effort to fit into that frock," his eyes flick in the direction of said frock, "which is absolutely lovely and a very nice colour for you, Molly, you should wear blue more often," he continues, "but clearly, 'Doctor,' she's either going to faint or vomit - perhaps both - in the next minute or so, and you prescribe sweet tea for everything from the flu to myocardial infarction to Armageddon, ergo - "

The blond man, arms crossed over his chest, says nothing. He doesn't have to; staring daggers seems to be working just fine.

Scully gets it then, his familiarity. Tux or no tux, he's law enforcement, maybe military.

The dark-haired man, whose name is apparently Sherlock (of all things), ignores him for a solid twenty seconds, then his head shoots up. "Shut up!" he snaps.

The blond doesn't move a muscle. Oh yeah, she thinks. Definitely military.

Next to her, Molly sways, and Scully decides whatever Beckett play is in progress across the room can go on just fine without her. "Molly?" She touches her arm, gently. "Can I-"

Before she finishes the sentence, the blond man has come over and is leading Dr. Hooper by the elbow through the doors. "Come along, Molly. Back in a minute," he says. His eyes go to Scully. "Bring you tea? Coffee? Arsenic for you, Sherlock?"

"Don't tempt me," Sherlock drawls.

"Ah, no thank you," Scully says, but the doors have swung shut before she answers.

She wonders what the hell just happened.

Sherlock is back to concentrating on the foot.

Okay, then.

She looks around. As mortuaries go, this seems like a nice one. It's clean, bright, spacious, well-equipped, well set up for teaching. Smells not bad, considering. It lacks chairs, however, and her feet are killing her, so she leans against an unoccupied table. She remembers living in heels, actually running after suspects in stilettos a good two inches higher than the ones she's wearing now. Tall, sexy power-heels.

Now? Not so much.

She's getting old.

"Look at this," Sherlock says.

"Excuse me?"

"This." He nods toward the foot, steps away from the body. "Look at it."

She wonders why she'd want to do that. She's standing there in an obscenely expensive silk gown (Mulder had insisted he needed 'something' to spend part of seven years of back-pay on), so she wonders why this man even thinks she'd want to do that.

"Second opinion, obviously," he says, answering the question she didn't pose.

Scully frowns. The way he says 'obviously' is odd. Of course, he'd probably think the way she says it is odd, too. "Um, Dr. Hooper seems upset," she says.

"Upset?" He sniffs, appears to weigh this. "Yes, well, most likely. Not a month ago, her insane sham gay criminal mastermind boyfriend tried to murder my colleague, blew up several buildings, including much of my flat, killed at least a dozen people in the process, and annoyed - and continues to annoy - the hell out of me."

Scully blinks. "Excuse me?"

"And he may or may not have poisoned her cat," he adds. "The cat seems to have recovered, at any rate. But yes, she probably is still upset. Molly's that way."

Scully is not sure how to respond. "Maybe I should check on -"

"John's got her." Sherlock gives a dismissive wave. "In seven to ten minutes, she'll be fine."

"Seven to ten?"

"Look at this?" he tries, pointing. "Please?"

Hmm. Well. Hmm.

She has no idea where John - presumably the blond military man - has taken Molly, so she can't really follow them. She could find her way back to the reception, she supposes, but she doesn't quite know the etiquette for just leaving Molly after whatever it is that just happened. Also, she has to admit, she's kind of curious now, as she always began an autopsy with a y-incision, not a foot massage. And she never conducted one while wearing formal attire, either.

Oh, what the hell, she thinks, and steps out of her painful shoes, because she's never done an autopsy in heels, either, and isn't about to start now. And what else is she going to do for the next seven to ten minutes?

She peers at the foot. "It's a foot, a man's left foot." She points to the corpse. "Probably his."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Yes, Doctor, thank you, I am well aware of that."

For about half a second she wonders how he knows she's a doctor. But then, she's been standing in a hospital mortuary watching someone peel a corpse and not throwing up, so 'doctor' is a good, solid guess, and probably the one she would have made. That, or 'ghoul,' which is what Mulder would no doubt opt for.

She looks at the body. Male, about 6'2", 6'3", aged approximately 25 to 35, but probably somewhere nearer the middle. 165 to 170 lbs. Blond, very blond, so very likely blue-eyed, and that's easily checked. Well-muscled. Very well muscled, actually, particularly the legs and calves, but there's a good deal of abdominal and upper body development, too, so he might actually weigh more. There's notan ounce of fat on this man. Possibly some steroid use, but that's not her concern at the moment, since they appear to be concentrating on the foot. Hasn't been dead long, judging by lividity. And no obvious signs of trauma, lethal or otherwise, so why is he dead?

She looks at the un-peeled foot. The toes are heavily calloused, bent, bruised; the nails, thickened, slightly deformed. Oh, she's seen this before; Melissa's feet had looked like this for about five years. Well, like they were heading this way, at least.

"Dancer?" she says. "Ballet?"

"Yes," impatiently. He points to an x-ray hanging on the light box on the wall. "And?"

She looks at the x-ray, a single old-fashioned film, studies it carefully, looking for anomalies, then she examines the foot again. She holds out her hand and, after a brief pause, this Sherlock person makes an 'oh, right' sort of sound, drops a pair of gloves in it. Gloved up, she lifts the foot, looks at the x- ray, looks at the foot again.

"Do you have?-"

He hands her a magnifying glass.

"Thanks." She rotates the toes slightly, flexes them, squints. Squints at the x-ray. Toes. X-ray. Toes.

Finally, she says, "Not the same foot."

"Why?" he asks, voice neutral.

She strips off the gloves, crosses to the light box. "Here, here, here and, yes, here," she points. "Obviously," she adds for good measure. It's not obvious, though. You have to know what you're looking for, really know, and luckily, she does.

"Precisely! Yes!" Sherlock says, adding a completely incongruous fist-pump. "I knew it wasn't him!" He pulls out his phone and starts texting furiously.

"Him whom?" she asks, removing the gloves and stepping back into her shoes.

"Hmm? What?" Sherlock looks up from his phone, blinks like he's surprised she's still there. "Oh, Aleksey Vetkov, the man to whom this x-ray belongs. I am fairly certain this is his brother, Andrei." Sherlock frowns. "But it could be Anton."



"Right. Of course."

He's studying the x-ray again. "Robertson is such an incompetent idiot that's he's bound to miss it, so I will email Molly, get her to point it out to him. Why he hasn't been sacked yet..." He shakes his head, lets the thought trail off, and he's silent for a moment. "Oh," he turns back to her. "Inbreeding," he says.


"You were looking at my eyes before, and now you've been looking at my hair."

"I -"

"At the roots, which you've concluded, correctly, aren't dyed."

"No, I -"

"You were wondering how someone with grey eyes and a startling lack of melanin gets hair this colour."

"I don't think I was," she asserts.

"I think you'll find you were," he says, self-assuredly. "Inbreeding. Generations of it."

She's about to protest again, but now that he mentions it, it is an unlikely combination. Very unlikely, really.

Before she can give it any thought, John returns. "Sorry, all sorted now, more or less. Brought you tea, hope that's all right." He hands her a cardboard cup. "I'm John, by the way. John Watson. Hello. Molly'll be along to collect you in a few minutes. She's just, um -" His eyes narrow. "Has he been deducing you?"

She blinks. "Has he what?"

"No, you don't look to be in a murderous rage, so I guess n- "

"It's not Aleksy, John," Sherlock says while he texts.

"Molly's fine," John answers.

"It might be Anton."

"Molly's fine," he repeats.

"But I really think it's Andrei."

"Molly is bloody fine, Sherlock," he says forcefully.

Sherlock turns around. He looks extremely put-out. His voice is flat as a board. "And how is Molly, John?"

"Gutted," John says.

Sherlock exhales loudly, rolls his eyes. "I. Apologized."

"Yes, yes you did." John holds out a cup. "But she's still gutted."

Sherlock's face goes blank.

John sighs. "Drink this," he tells Sherlock.

"I don't want to drink that."

"It's tea, just tea and sugar, they were right out of arsenic."

Sherlock glowers.

"Three day rule," John says. "Drink it."

"Fine." Sherlock relents, takes a sip of his tea, then another. "Must I apologize again?" He sounds both extremely annoyed and utterly bewildered. Scully hadn't been paying all that much attention, but the apology he'd offered Dr. Hooper by way of Mr. Vetkov's feet had been feeble at best, insulting at worst, and inadequate all around.

Well, maybe she had been paying attention.

"Probably for the best if you do," John says. "Only, remember the time Mycroft made you apologize to that Duchess?"

Sherlock's lip curls. "Unfortunately."

"More like that. Eye contact and everything."

Sherlock scowls. "But I was lying through my teeth, then. I was sincere this time."

"I know," John says. "But mere mortals can't always tell the difference."

"Fine," he spits out, clearly disgusted. Sherlock takes another sip of his tea. He's quiet a moment, then he says, low and lethal, "When I find him, John, and I will, you are going to have to let me kill him at least twice."

"Sure" John nods. "No problem. Me, too. At least twice."

"Good. Glad that's settled." Sherlock grins. And, oh, it's disturbing, that grin.

He's disturbing, now that she's paying attention. He's tall and lean and white as a sheet of printer paper. He looks about 12, maybe 13, like he couldn't grow a beard to save his life, but his voice is so deep. His eyes are grey, which she hadn't consciously noticed, but she's unlikely to ever forget it now. Unlike John, he looks perfectly comfortable in that tux, and she'd bet good money that he owns it. Those cheek bones - those are deadly. The air around him all but crackles with nervous energy, and it's pretty damned clear, even from the little interaction they've had, that he's very, very smart. Arrogant, too - oh lord, arrogant. And dangerous. Several bad kinds of dangerous.

So he reminds her of someone, too. A very specific someone, in this case.

"So, not Vetkov, then?" John asks.

"Not Aleksy, at any rate." Sherlock is texting again. "Doctor, um,-" He looks at her pointedly.

"Scully," she supplies.

"Oh. Oh, right, of course. Yes, Doctor Scully confirmed that. Took her no time at all."

John looks surprised. "Right, then. Thanks."

The cup is half-way to her lips when Sherlock says, "She used to be a pathologist. Good one, too, I'd wager."

How did he - "Excuse me?" she asks.

"Likes her new job well enough, but I think she misses pathology, just a bit, judging by her willingness to get her hands - and feet - dirty."

John looks at her, gathers something from her expression that's not quite as neutral as she'd like it to be. "Right," he says. "So he was, then? Deducing?"

"Um -"

"Don't mind him; he's always like that."

She lifts the cup the rest of the way to her mouth, takes a sip, hoping to cover her confusion. Who the hell are these people?

"Good news for Lestrade, bad news for Petrovic," Sherlock says. "Very bad news, indeed. I've texted Donovan. That should - Oh, Molly. You're back. Feeling better?"

And yes, Molly is back. She's no longer green, which is a good thing, but she isn't quite a normal human colour, either. She's tidied her hair, reapplied lipstick and mascara, but it's still evident that she's been crying.

Molly takes a deep breath. "I want to apologize," she says stiffly.

Sherlock looks at John. John is very deliberately not looking at Sherlock.

"To whom?" Sherlock asks. "For what?"

"To you," Molly says. Another deep breath. "For Jim."

Sherlock's brow furrows. "Hardly your doing, Molly."

"You were right about him," she says.

Sherlock's head tilts slightly to the right. "No. No, I wasn't."

"You were," Molly insists, looking at her feet. "I was just -"

"No," Sherlock cuts her off. "I was not right about him. I was clearly as wrong about 'Jim' -" he spits out the name "- as it waspossible to have been."

"But -" Molly begins.

Sherlock takes three strides, grips Molly by the shoulders. "I was wrong about Jim, and Jim was wrong about me, Molly. He used my friends, you and John both, and he thought, he honestly thought, I wouldn't mind. He thought I'd love it!" He pauses. "Do you have any idea, any idea at all, how angry that makes me?"

Still looking down, Molly shakes her head.

Sherlock places two fingers under her chin and none-too- gentlytilts her head up so she's looking him in the eye. "Very. Very. Angry."

"We're planning on killing him four times," John says cheerily. "Two of those are in your honour."

"That number is subject to change," Sherlock assures her. "It could go higher. Much higher." He smiles. His smile is nothing like his grin, Scully sees, but it's still disturbing, just an entirely different kind of disturbing. "Where's your bag?" Sherlock asks Molly.

"What?" Molly replies, flustered by the sudden shift in topic.

"You and Dr. Scully need to return to the reception, or Dr. Scully will miss receiving her award. You had your bag, now you don't have your bag, so you've left it somewhere, probably your office. You should go fetch it."

Molly's still confused, but she nods. "Okay," she agrees and leaves again.

Sherlock waits a beat, looks at John, face blank now. "How was that?"

"Oh, stellar," John says. "BAFTA-worthy, really. All the mortals have been fooled."

Sherlock scowls. "Shut up."

"You need to work on your segues, a bit."

"Quite certain I told you to shut up, John."

Scully turns to John. "My award? How-?

John shakes his head, shrugs. "No idea. Don't ask; you'll regret it."

Something buzzes, then, and something beeps. Both men reach into their respective pockets.

"Mycroft," John says.

"Lestrade," Sherlock answers.

"Oh shit," John says.

"My thoughts precisely," Sherlock replies.

Everything is still for about 2 seconds, then John runs one way and Sherlock runs the other, both of them collecting things that have been scattered around the room.

Her own phone buzzes. "Sry. Ran late. 5 mins. Where? M." the screen reads. She tells Mulder to let her know when he actually arrives, that she'll meet him by the front door.

"Body?" John asks as he grabs some papers.

"Robertson's on call," Sherlock sneers. "Let him deal with it."

"Right. X-ray?"

"Bring it."


"Texting him as we speak," Sherlock replies. He finishes with his phone, then twirls himself into a trench coat that probably cost as much as Scully's first car. "Thank you for your assistance, Dr. Scully, and congratulations. Come along, John." And he's gone.

"Yes, nice to have met you, Dr. Scully," John says as he shrugs his own coat on. "Sorry about um - well, just sorry, really. Tell Molly that Mycroft called, if you would. She'll know what that means."

"Sure, yes. Nice meeting you, too, Dr. Watson."

From the hallway, "John!"

John picks up the last of his things, shaking his head. "Right. Evening," and he's gone, too.

Scully watches the doors swing shut.

Well, she thinks, that was different, and finishes her tea.

Molly returns with her bag not long after, scans the room, frowning slightly.

"Mycroft called," Scully says. "Dr. Watson - John - he said you'd know what that means."

"Oh. Right. Yes." Molly sighs. "They left the body out. I'm not really dressed to move a body."

"Sherlock said Robertson should deal with it," Scully says, and then thinks to ask, "Sherlock - is that his first name or his last?"

"First," Molly says. "His surname is Holmes." She looks embarrassed suddenly. "So, I suppose you're wondering what all that was about, then."

She should be, really. She'd only met Molly in person for the first time just over two hours ago - they've corresponded intermittently by email for about a year after Molly had posted some questions about anomalous findings on a professional bulletin board and Scully had shared some ideas and insights - and what a busy two hours those have been. But Scully knows she walked right into the middle of something, and in a few minutes, if things go according to plan, she'll be walking right back out. She's okay with that. She wouldn't have been, once, but today, she's really okay with it.

Her phone buzzes again. "Here. U? M." She tells him she'll be there in five minutes.

She wonders, briefly, if this is how her life had looked to the strangers who'd blundered into it all those years ago - corpses and death threats and raw, kinetic madness. It probably had. Some days, she supposes, it still does.

"Well, from what I can tell, two very strange men want to kill someone for you. Twice."

Molly looks down, blushes. "Uh, yes."

"And I get the feeling that, if you tell me exactly why they want to do that, they'll probably have to kill me, too. So, thanks, but I'll pass."

"Yes," Molly says, "that's probably for the best."


The End

Thanks to: Circe for beta, encouragement, and saying "Hey, have you watched...," Benedict Cumberbatch for having a name way better than yours, Martin Freeman for being the BAMFist Watson ever, and David and Gillian for continuing to inspire me even after all this time.

(1) Yeah, you gotta know stuff. 
(2) If you haven't, do. Really. You'll thank me. 
(3)The fandom has promoted her from mortuary attendant to pathologist.  I can live with that.
(4) This story apparently drove someone from fandom. All fandom. Forever. I'm so proud!


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