Author's Note

The season finale – along with my personal experiences with obsessive-compulsive disorder – prompted me to consider a possible (or impossible) conclusion for the series. Despite the addition of a new character to this next season and, in turn, the loss of a vital one, I have decided to give Sharona a chance to witness this particular end.

This is only a short prologue. I'd like to get some feedback on the concept before I dive into my story.

In truth, I was going nuts with the recent lack of updates in this category. x)

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The sky was darkening.

An old Volvo came to rest tentatively against the curb; the driver could not have been in much of a hurry as it nosed in. Above, a lone seagull – lounging as best as it could in the cold, nearly liftless air that haunted the wake of year's end – may have seen the graying clouds reflected twice in the stormy blue irises of the driver's upturned face had its concerns at that very moment been land-bound. As it was, finally disheartened by ominous promises of moisture, the scruffy bird flapped hard. It leveled out, turned sharply, and disappeared. The woman was no longer watching; an arrangement of fair curls had displaced the pale face. The Volvo's door whispered shut.

The rain made Sharona Fleming nervous.

"You're ridiculous," her voice was weak and her throat was dry. It had little to do with the weather. The nurse's lips remained motionless as her mind ran cautious circles, skirting the particularly sensitive memory that had produced the phrase.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry, and he deserves to know.

As she ventured to take a step forward and onto the sidewalk, Sharona found her way barred by the whirling, unconcerned drift of a snowy feather.

She paused. A stray wisp of gold stroked the forlorn woman's cheek and her blue gaze followed the feather, enthralled; the look of envy would not be mistaken for anything but what it was. After a long moment, she pulled herself away from the daydream with a motion akin to shaking out one's hair following a shower. Sharona could only imagine how silly she looked, half-astride the gutter, golden mane tousled, and watching (with fascination, she might add) a seagull feather. She brushed back her hair, and she knew that it was inevitable that some of the droplets would cling.

A part of her hoped that Adrian was, in turn, observing her silently from his window, understanding her pained expression; the chunk which she exposed to the world, however – the hard majority of Sharona Fleming – was partial to the image of her former employer toiling with a mop – oblivious – in his kitchen, or perhaps his bathroom. She discovered herself appallingly warmed by the knowledge that the tiles would never be too clean for Adrian Monk. As the downy thing, the talisman of her regret, came to rest, she gave it her back and willed herself to confront the house.

. . . Step back three months . . .