The police were there in no time. Monk was sitting in the back of an ambulance with a shock blanket draped over his shoulders. He was stone silent, never making any reply to anyone except to shake his head.

"Well, no one else was hurt," Stottlemeyer said to him. "Some cars were damaged, but it does look like, unfortunately, Mrs. Waters was our one fatality. Looks like someone went to great lengths to mess with ya, Monk. Did you see who did this?"

Monk didn't answer. He just stared ahead.

"Monk, stay with me here. Don't go out on me. I need you to tell me who did this!"

"Who did this?" Monk said softly.

"You saying you didn't see? You were the only one in the garage, Monk. You're the closest thing we have to a witness! Please, tell me something!"

But Monk didn't respond.

"Monk, I can't lose you, not again. What can I do?"

"What can I do?"

Sherlock's car pulled up about that time. John got out right away and found Natalie, who was standing alone, crying. "Natalie, are you alright?"

"I don't know. Mr. Monk . . ." She saw Sherlock, wearing his usual clothes and carrying a computer case, staring her down with a disapproving look. She dried her tears and looked back at him. "For the record, I tried not to leave him alone. He went off by himself. I'm not his mother."

"For the record, I don't care," he answered coldly.

"Don't blame her, Sherlock," John said. "This would've happened even if she was with him."

This time, Sherlock didn't answer.

The captain approached them. "How is he, Captain?" John asked.

"Physically, he's fine," Stottlemeyer answered, "but he's pulling away from us. I've seen him like this only a couple times in my life."

"When Trudy died?"

"Yeah, and that time we thought Trudy was alive a few years ago. In fact, it's a bit more like that. Anyway, he won't talk about what he saw specifically. We can't get a statement out of him. Randy's calling Dr. Bell to talk to him. Perhaps we can nip this in the bud."

"Let me talk to him first, Captain," Sherlock said.

"With all due respect, Holmes, you don't really know how to handle Monk. We've had a lot more time with him. He gets like this . . . a lot. See, he's not a typical detective, like you."

"There's nothing typical about me, Captain. Let me talk to him."

"Fine. Take your best shot."

Natalie and John went over to the ambulance first. "Mr. Monk, are you alright?"

He finally started talking. "I don't believe it. He . . . he's real. He killed my friend. But it can't, he can't-!" Monk covered his face and rocked.

Natalie rubbed his back. "It's gonna be OK, Mr. Mon—"

"OK?! OK?! Natalie, it's never gonna be OK! Don't you get it? Everything's . . . what's real? What's not? How can I know? I used to know. Now, it's not so simple. I can't be sure of anything anymore. If this is true, then nothing's true. If this is true, then nothing's true."

Natalie looked at John and shrugged. She remembered him say that once before, and she didn't know how to respond any more than she did then. Then they heard someone clear his throat behind them. They turned and saw Sherlock standing next to the ambulance. He gestured his head to the side, and they both nodded and got out of his way.

Sherlock sat down next to Monk and opened his laptop. "I want to show you something." Once he got a wi-fi signal, he pulled up a website on the Internet. "This is my blog. I started it before I met you, before I met John, before I even decided to become a consulting detective."

Monk looked at the screen. "The Science of Deduction," he read. He scoffed. "That was the title of the book the real Sherlock Holmes wrote."

Sherlock only scrolled down. "This is one of my first posts on my blog, in which I outlined some ways modern technology could be used in forensics." He pointed with his cursor below the entry. "Notice one of the commentators to my entry."

Monk looked at it, but it was a lengthy paragraph written in French. "Sorry, I only know Spanish, and not very much of it."

"Do you at least recognize the name of the poster?"

Monk looked at the top of the paragraph. "C. August-ee Duppin," he read. Then his eyes grew wide. "Wait a minute."

"It's pronounced Doo-pin, Auguste Dupin."

"Edgar Allen Poe's detective? The beginning of the literary mystery genre? 'Murders in the Rue Morgue,' 'Pickwick Papers,' that guy?"

"The very same."

"How could . . . OK, hang on. If there's one thing I know about the Internet, it's that anybody can post as anybody. I mean, how do you know this isn't a sixty-year-old grandmother in Montreal?"

"Exactly, I was just as skeptical. I grew up on Poe; he was really the only writer I enjoyed as a child." He minimized the blog and then pulled up a photo album. "So, I took the Chunnel to Paris, and I met him myself."

"You . . . met him?"

Sherlock scrolled through until he found the picture of a policeman. "There he is. This is his office. He showed me this, too." He scrolled to the next picture a close-up of a lock of orange hair.

"Is that-?

Sherlock nodded. "Orangutan hair, which he used to solve his first case. He told me that he was fascinated with my ideas, and he suggested that I make a career out of it. I have this man to thank for who I am today."

"But it's not . . . it's impossible."

"I know it is. I told him so. I asked him how a Frenchman who was originally the creation of an American a century ago could really be in Paris and could really have any interest in my opinions." He shook his head. "I'll never forget what he told me. He said, 'Garçon, la difference entre la vérité et la fiction c'est que la fiction doit être réelle.'"

"Just how many languages do you know?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I've lost count. It means, 'The difference between truth and fiction is that fiction must be real.'"

"But that doesn't make sense. Fiction, by definition, is not true, and truth, by definition—"

"Oh, it's French logic. Don't even try. I think what he was saying is that there's an element of reality in fiction, and there's an element of fiction in reality . The point is, you're not insane. These things happen. I know it drives both of us to distraction because we can't explain why, but nevertheless . . . you asked me for evidence. This is the best evidence I had."

Monk looked away.

"Oh, by the way, I tested the water. The toxin is not fatal; it's just enough to temporarily paralyze her. I know you're upset, but . . ." He put his hand on Monk's shoulder and added, "you'll thank me later."

Monk shook his shoulder and pulled away.

Sherlock sighed and shut his computer. "So even that doesn't convince you. OK. At the end of the day, we both know who we are. Nothing's going to change that. So, it doesn't matter what you think of me. If you want to believe I'm fictional or that I'm not the real Sherlock Holmes, that's fine. I don't care. But I do care about our alliance. I do care about keeping the line of communication between us. Because . . . we are more alike than you may realize. You're more like me than John or Lestrade. You may be more like me than anyone I met."

"Even Dupin?"

"Well, I just met him the one time, so I cannot really say. What I'm telling you is it helps sometimes knowing that there's someone else who's a little like me, someone who knows how I think, someone who's been there, someone who's not a criminal, someone who's a detective, like me. That's why I was upset when you didn't call. I just want to be reminded sometimes, just want to talk to someone who's not so . . . ordinary."

"You don't get it. I don't care about what you think, either. I care about what I think. You're young. You haven't been where I've been, and I pray you never do."

"You don't have to."

"But it's a nightmare! It's a dreadful nightmare of no escape, no hope. My mind is a prison. I was lucky to get out. I can't go back in. I can't."

Sherlock stood and turned away. "Then don't let him."

"What?"

"You know this is not about me. It's about him. Regardless of who he is, he wants nothing more than to you lock you away in that prison, where you will be no good to anyone. Don't let him."

"How do you know?"

"Do you have to ask me that?" He turned back. "You said last year, he deserves to die. We both know enough about morality to know he's evil through and through. He's kidnapped people. He's killed people. He's tortured, he's stolen, he's threatened. And he won't stop until we stop him or he stops us. Which would you prefer, Mr. Monk?"

Monk shut his eyes and did something he didn't really want to do. "Randy!"

Randy came over. "Monk, you want me to call Dr. Bell now?"

"Not now. I'm ready to talk."

"Oh!" Randy pulled out his little notebook. "What can you tell us about what you saw?"

"I was wrong about him, Randy."

"Wrong about who?"

"The man you told me about. He is dangerous. He did it. He's the guy."

Randy looked stunned. "Monk, why did you lie to me?"

"I didn't lie. I just, it's complicated."

"He doesn't think he exists," Sherlock explained.

"Are you sure you don't wanna talk to Dr. Bell?" Randy asked.

Monk took a deep breath. "Randy, I have to talk to Sharona."