"Always has been," he says dryly. "Think about the symptoms, Scully: Sleep disturbances, mood swings, inconsistent severity, neurotic thinking. It's not paranoia if they're really out to get you, but that doesn't mean it's not something."

Which is to say, he believes something's wrong with him - finally, after much argument and cajoling on a different, older Scully's part - but it's always felt like a manageable problem. A little vice, almost, the thing pushing him to work endlessly and stay awake at all hours. Depression as indulgence, his work the only refuge from the void.

"I take medication," he adds, after a moment or two, since it seems likely what treatments, how, when are the next questions. "I used to see someone. It just wasn't enough to save us."