The Missing Mollies, or Mr. Monk and Mr. Holmes

A Monk/Sherlock Crossover Fic by SJO

Note: Monk is owned by USA Network, and Sherlock is owned by BBC and PBS, not me. I may be incorrect in British phraseology, geography, and spellings; please be patient with me. There will be spoilers from both series. This takes place after the Monk series finished and after Season 3 of Sherlock.

Chapter 1

It seriously felt like Trudy all over again.

She was supposed to call him when she came in on Friday, but she didn't. That's when he started to worry. When he did get the call, it was from the hotel—no one had seen her since the last filmed signed off. She did not check out of her hotel, and yet she was not in her hotel room. They asked him to come in. He was worried he was too close to it and would not see crucial evidence. But he decided he had to try. If he lost her . . .

He was coming up cold. No signs of a struggle. She actually took a shower before she left the room willingly. Did she know the guy? Her boyfriend and her parents were accounted for, and he certainly didn't do it. Wait a minute—

"That drawer's been opened recently. It's still cracked."

"Maybe she was reading the Gideon Bible," one of the security guards suggested.

"No, she has her own."

"Getting a number out of the phone book, maybe ordering a pizza?"

"She'd find that information on her laptop; she uses it for everything. I'm just gonna look."

He carefully slid open the drawer with his pen. The Bible was there, but inside the cover was an envelope. No address on the front. He took it out and slit it open. Inside was a strange-looking piece of currency. It was obvious what it was, but he'd never seen it before. "It's British, £5. I don't think she knows anyone from England. She talks about going sometimes, but how-? Hang on, there's something else." He unfolded a sheet of paper that included a few measures of music. He could hear how it sounded inside his head, but he didn't recognize the tune. Who left this? The guy? What did it mean? He must be trying to communicate with someone.

Then he noticed something else, a clue that probably wasn't as intentional. The notepad was by the phone, but it was at an angle, not neatly laid out. The pen was still uncapped. "Someone used this." The pad was blank, but the first page had been ripped out. He took his pen and gently rubbed on top of the first page, and he recognized her handwriting. The note read, "Rise and Fall of the Reichenbach Hero." What does that mean? It sounded like a title the more he thought of it, but when he checked the festival's itinerary, none of the films had that title. He started to piece together what happened from that clue, but it didn't tell him where she was or if she was still alive.

When he got home, he started playing the music on his clarinet over and over. The more he played it, the more it sounded familiar. He still wasn't sure where it was from or what it meant.

Then Natalie came in. "Hey, are you doing OK?" she asked as she joined him. He nodded and continued to play. "Hey, that sounds nice on the clarinet. How do you know 'Baker Street,' Mr. Monk?"

He put down his instrument. "What did you say?"

"'Baker Street.' It's a soft-rock tune from the seventies, I think. That's the solo that serves as the chorus. It's played on a saxophone, but it doesn't sound bad on a clarinet. So, have you got any leads on Molly's disappearance?"

"I do now," he answered. He took a deep breath and said, "We have to go to London."

They packed and got on an airplane citing a "police emergency." Stottlemeyer suggested that they check in with a colleague of his that he met at a police conference, Detective Inspector Lestrade. Monk was plainly nervous but determined, since he knew who was missing.

Just as soon as they got off the plane, Monk and Natalie went to Scotland Yard and talked to Stottlemeyer's contact. They shared the details, but he shook his head. "Sorry, I haven't heard anything of the sort."

"Nothing on Baker Street?" Monk asked. "She has to be there."

He paused but said, "No criminal activity, as far as I know."

Monk leaned in. "Who's the Reichenbach Hero?"

Lestrade looked a little surprised. "What?"

"'Rise and Fall of the Reichenbach Hero.' Does that mean anything to you?"

Lestade leaned back in his chair and whispered, "Holmes."

"Excuse me?"

"Listen, Stottlemeyer's told me about you. You're a consulting detective, right? Not officially on the force, but you help the police out of tight spots, right?"

"That's right."

"We got one of those over here. He lives on Baker Street. Name's Sherlock Holmes."

Monk laughed. "You can't be serious!"

"I am bloody serious! That's his name! No more unusual than Adrian, isn't it? Not too long ago, he was named the Reichenbach Hero by the presses for recovering that long-lost Turner painting. He doesn't have the same kind of, er . . . hang-ups that you do, but he's got his own stuff. He's not on the force, though, never has been. He just showed up a few years ago and said he could help, and he did. I've been asking him to help on and off since then."

"Well, that's great!" Natalie said. "Let's call him!"

"Er, it's not quite that simple," Lestrade answered. "He hasn't been in contact with us for a couple days, says he's working on a personal matter."

"Is he hiring a new assistant?"

"No, it's more complicated than that."

Monk asked Natalie, "What should we do?"

"I think we should go find him. Mr. Monk, he basically said the same thing, almost word for word, of what Stottlemeyer told me the day I first met you. You still saw me, didn't you?"

She was right. Monk nodded.

"Alright, I'll arrange an escort," Lestrade said.

"You should know, Mr. Monk needs to sit in the front," Natalie said.

"Oh. Then it might be better if you took a cab, but I'll pay the fee, and I'll call and let him know you're coming."

"Great," Monk answered. "Thank you, Cap—Inspector."

As he was leaving, Monk passed by a policewoman who said behind his back to another policeman, "Just what we need, two freaks. From what I hear, that one's freakier than the other one." They both laughed

Those comments hurt. Monk stopped and felt his shoulders twitch, but Natalie put her hand on his arm and said, "That's OK, let's just go."

It took some negotiating with the cab driver, but he allowed Monk to sit in the front when he heard this was official police business. Monk took a few deep breaths as he sat up front. Natalie touched his shoulder. "You doing OK?"

"It's just a little strange," he said. "This is where the driver usually sits, and I'm sitting here, and I'm not driving."

"That's because Americans are backward!" the taxi driver snapped.

"No, I mean, are you panicking? We're in a new place. I know you aren't comfortable in new places."

"Well I . . ." They turned onto Baker Street. Monk took a look around. "I think I'm OK."

"Good. I'm proud of you."

The car came to a stop. "221B Baker Street, home of Sherlock Holmes," the driver said.

"221B?" Monk asked as they got off. "Did he even consider an even number like 220? Or 200? Or 100? A?" Natalie shushed him and rang the bell. An older woman opened the door and led up to the apartment.

He heard someone talking before he went in, a younger voice saying, "Folk song, commonly taught to children, origin unknown but most people believe it's German, you were right—" Since he was talking, they didn't hear the older lady's knock, so Monk just went in.

"Excuse me," he said nervously. He saw two young men there. One was sitting at a computer; he had sandy hair and wore a striped sweater. The other was a taller man with dark, curly hair, a more angular face, and dressed in a black suit, and he was looking into a microscope. When Monk came in, they both looked up in annoyance. "Uh, hi. Cheerio . . . chaps." He gave a small nervous wave. They didn't react. "That's British slang. It means young men."

"Yes, we're aware," the man at the microscope said darkly.

"Am I interrupting something?"

"Bit, yeah," the man at the computer said apologetically.

"Sorry. I just, I'm looking for Sherlock Holmes. Do you know where I might find him?"

"He's not taking cases today," the man at the microscope said.

Natalie stepped in. "Well, we just need to talk to him for a minute. Please, we came all the way from San Francisco. It's important!"

"Natalie," Monk said quietly, "that's the guy. The one Lestrade told us about." He pointed to the curly-haired one.

"How do you know?"

"Who else but a detective would look at us so closely?"

"Isn't this the bloke Lestrade phoned us about?" the man at the computer asked.

"I know it is," the man at the microscope muttered. He stood and approached them. "Your fame precedes you, Adrian Monk. Pleasure." He held out his hand to shake.

"As does yours, Mr. Holmes," Monk answered as he nervously took his hand. "Though I thought you'd be older."

"I thought you'd be younger, and it's Sherlock, please." Natalie immediately handed him a wipe. "Did I offend you, Mr. Monk?"

"Oh no!" Monk answered as he wiped his hand (he always hated this question). "I'm, it's-"

"He's just like that," Natalie added.

"This is Natalie Teeger, my assistant."

The man at the computer stood and smiled. "Charmed!" He reached out to shake Natalie's hand.

"And this is my assistant and friend, Dr. John Watson," Sherlock introduced.

"Oh, a doctor!" Monk spoke. "What kind, medical? Psychological? Professor?"

"No, I was an army doctor," John replied.

"How convenient!" He whispered rather loudly, "Don't let him quit! It's never the same."

"Hey, I'm right here!" Natalie said, offended. "Just tell them about the case."

"Yes." Monk took a breath and started. "Friday evening a journalist was abducted from the Sacramento Film Festival. All evidence indicates that the victim was taken to—"

But before he could breathe another word, Sherlock started walking away back to the kitchen. "I do appreciate the distance you've come seeking my aid, but I must decline. I'm working on a case of my own at the moment. I owe my client all my concentration and energy; I am sure you understand. My advice is that you begin working on your case with Lestrade, and I may join you by the end."

Monk stepped back for a moment and almost left, but then he turned. "OK, here's the thing—I can't do that. Lestrade led me here. The case led me here. England, London, Baker Street, Reichenbach Hero! You either help me, or you know something. You might even be the guy! Should I take you down for questioning?"

"I think if Sherlock kidnapped someone I'd know about it," John spoke up.

"How about this? Why don't I help you with your case? I'm pretty good with—"

"No, it has to be—" Sherlock looked up at him again. "Lestrade told you all of that?"

"No, actually I heard some of it from your own Queen," Monk answered. Sherlock looked at him questioningly, and Monk put on the table all the evidence baggies. "This was found in the journalist's hotel room."

Sherlock looked it over, especially the £5 note. He didn't notice the Reichenbach Hero note because it was in the back of the bag. Suddenly, he looked up again. "What's her name?"

"Her name? I never said it was a woman, just a journalist."

"Ah, withholding evidence, trying to trick me into a confession. Would be clever, but you were on the force, and that's what they taught you to do, wasn't it? I'm working on a hypothesis, so learn to trust me. What's her name?"

"Molly Evans." Sherlock slowly nodded. "She's twenty-nine, blonde—"

"No, you don't need to describe her just yet." He went back to the microscope. "It's so happens that my case is also for a missing person. You say you heard from the Queen; I received information from one of your Presidents. As I understand, he's usually a reliable source, you might say honest." He slipped out from under the microscope a five dollar bill.

"Yeah, Honest Abe."

"That's what I thought, but there is something dishonest about this bill. I also found it at the scene of the crime."

"And a piece of music. I heard the doctor talk about it when I was coming in."'

"I was trying to piece it together. Like you, I thought it was telling me where the victim is; now, it's starting to make sense." He leaned in a little closer. "You know what this means, don't you, Mr. Monk?"

He nodded. "The cases are connected. Same guy."

"Same guy, yes." He added in a whisper, "And he knows us."

"What?"

"He knows both of us. He's been watching us. He knows we both read music, and he knows what gets our attention—the bizarre, the baffling."

"You don't seriously mean these clues were meant for us!"

"Of course, I do! Who else could it be?"

"The criminals! They're communicating with each other!"

"If they want to communicate, they can text, chat, and email; that's more private. Think about our two possibilities. Which do you actually think is more likely?" Monk was at a loss for words. He wasn't really sure he caught it all; this kid had a way of speaking really fast. Sherlock looked back down at the evidence and noticed the handwritten note. "What is this?"

"It's a note from the victim, from Miss Evans. I think she made it just before she left."

"Oh, they make a mistake. They always do, and you caught it. Good." He put on a scarf and a long coat and said quietly, "Listen, this could be dangerous. This could lead to all sorts of trouble. But I'm game for it if you are."

"Of course, yes, I am."

"Excellent! I believe it would be best if we walked, and we do have a long way to go. I hear your memory is spot on, so I want you to go through every detail of your crime scene, and I will show you mine. Perhaps you can discover another clue that we weren't meant to find."

"Wait a minute," Natalie spoke up. "How did you know it was a woman?"

Sherlock looked back with a grin. "Tell her the song we got, John."

John gave somewhat of an embarrassed grin. "'John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt.'"

"What, 'his name is my name, too'?" Natalie said.

Sherlock looked at Monk before opening the door. "I'm also looking for a woman named Molly—Molly Hooper."