Author's Note
This is a record-time update for me. Whee. A bit short, though. ):
Although there is a little rough language here, the next chapter is the point where I may decide to change the rating to PG-13. It's not a nice one.
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Chapter Three – "Messenger"
"You're not going anywhere." As terrified as she was, Sharona knew better than to believe that she would find comfort in Monk's presence; he always managed to escalate the situation. That was not something she could afford this time.
"It's Benjy," he retorted incredulously, "He's . . ." Monk snatched Sharona's restless gaze from the front door with the sincerity in his own, "Family." As much as she would have liked to argue, they had distressingly little time. And, honestly? She wouldn't have known how to reply.
They raced for the old station wagon, only briefly delayed while Monk made a fleeting inspection of the door before the two passed through and emerged into the night.
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"You need to tell me everything, Sharona."
"Adrian," she snapped, "I don't know everything. In fact, I know shit. I know that my son is at home, sick, and all alone."
"I thought that he said there wa—"
"Okay. He's not alone," she whipped around a stop sign and gauged her boss's reaction, daring him to protest her recklessness, "But somehow the idea of some psycho holding Benjy hostage is not very comforting." Monk could only cringe, grasping the spot where his brows furrowed together and squeezing his eyes shut.
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They arrived an eternity later. Sharona was first out of the car, almost completely disengaged from the vehicle by the time she had fully turned the key in the ignition. In direct contrast to sluggish standard of time experienced on the trip, Sharona's dash inside seemed to be enacted, as Monk watched, in a super fast-motion that left the detective in a momentary state of stunned paralysis. Shaking it off, he hastily made to follow his nurse. As hastily, that is, as a man who refused to touch the seatbelt, the buckle, or the car door with his bare hands could.
Inside, he found Sharona fussing over a decidedly flustered Benjy. He offered the room a cursory inspection before pulling the door shut behind him with a sleeve-sheathed hand; no strange men in sight. Monk was briefly reminded of his assistant's brush with insanity the previous year.
He inched forward, consciously maintaining a respectable distance between himself and the distraught mother who was, at the moment, thoroughly occupied with the comfort of her child.
"What happened, Benjy? Where is he? What did he want?" She pulled her son into her lap.
"And how the hell did he get in?" Monk interjected, having opened the door again in order to inspect the lock with the meticulousness that was his alone, ubiquitous silver pen balanced between his fingers.
Benjy's eyes were drawn to Monk's back and remained there until the detective turned to face him. "Benjy?" The boy cleared his throat.
"Uh-He asked for you, Mr. Monk. And he asked about you. A-and then he left," His eyes grew wider, but just perceptively, "He had a gun."
Adrian Monk could only stare at mother and child. In the moment that passed, he thought only of Trudy. In the next, I am so sorry, Sharona . . .