These next several chapters of my story all consist of an 'episode' that I made up myself. Enjoy.

Mr. Monk and the Suicide

He sometimes talks about Sharona, his former assistant. Okay, he talks about her a lot, always comparing her to me, like she is the standard or something. He mentions the crimes that he had solved with her help and womanly perspective, and her "irrational" fear of elephants that he helped alleviate. He constantly brings up the fact that she was always available with wipes and her station wagon for his use, and that she wouldn't take his crap.

He mentions the great times he had with her, and her persistence to get him to do things that he would never have done alone, like flying in an airplane (which I still can't believe he did, by the way), treading through sewer-water, acting on stage in a packed theater, and so many other amazing activities that I have problems picturing him doing. I truly have a lot to learn about him, if he's capable of all that.

I can tell by the look in his eyes as he speaks of Sharona that he really misses her and cares about her. I have to hear daily about her good-for-nothing ex-husband that she had recently remarried, and how her son Benjy will be scarred for life from staying with him again.

Let's face it; I have a big duty ahead of me. I have to make him forget about or at least stop comparing me to the wonder-nurse known as Sharona. Alright, I'm sorry I insulted her, but just her up-and-leaving turns me against her already, without having even met her. Not only is he hung up on his wife's unsolved murder, which I can perfectly understand, he has to be abandoned suddenly by his 'beloved' assistant.

As he finishes arranging the magazines on my coffee table by their published dates, since they are all Reader's Digests, he pauses to scan the room for something else to straighten or fix or order. His ever-present silver wedding band shimmers as the sunlight streams through the window, and he looks uncomfortable as hell sitting on the couch where the intruder had grabbed me.

"Mr. Monk, it's quite alright. You don't have to help anymore."

He glances up at me, narrowing his eyes a bit. "I'm not… helping…" he sputters. "It has to be done." I return to my work, finishing chopping up a few carrots in the kitchen, and use the palm side of my hand to push the pieces into a zip lock bag, for later use in the salad I'm making for the three of us: Julie, Monk, and me.

"Ohhhh…." I almost drop the baggie at the moaning sound he makes from the living room, like he's having a heart attack. As I spin around to look at him, he continues softly moaning, with his face contorted into one of utter disgust. He is turned around in his seat, having been watching me. I suddenly am very paranoid.

"What is it? Do you need a doctor? You look terrible!" I cry. With the baggie still in my hand, I walk over to his side as he follows me with his steady, disgusted gaze.

"You –you just touched all the… carrots," he mutters.

"Yes, but my hands are clean, see?" I hold my hands up to him, palms up, with the baggie held solely by my thumb and forefinger.

"I… I can't see your right thumb," he states, as if he is trying to prove my guilt.

Utilizing both of my hands again, I zip the zipper of the bag closed and lay it down on the couch arm. He stares down at it. "No," he grates, like he's scolding a dog.

"It's sealed, Mr. Monk. I assure you it won't drip out."

He gapes up at me, then down at the bag again. "That isn't a Ziploc bag."

These are the things that bother me, when he plays detective with me.

"Yes it is," I say sternly. I point at the bag. "See the zipper? It's a Ziploc."

"Uhmm…." He shakes his head and twitches his shoulder, biting his lower lip.

"No, it's not." He seems upset to mention this last fact to me, but does anyway.

"Are you trying to make me go insane already?" I can feel my blood pressure rise. I really hate being accused of lying, and he's already done it more times than I can count.

"Uh –it's not Ziploc… The –the seal is clear, not blue and red. The-the bag doesn't even say 'Ziploc' on it. It's generic— it's not sturdy enough to set on the couch safely…"

I scoff and pick up the bag by the bottom, daring him with my eyes. He cringes and scoots toward the other side of the couch.

"Wh-what are you doing? D-don-don't do that, you'll spill it out everywhere!" He is visibly shaken by my risky maneuver with the generic bag, and emotes frantically with his hands, palms out, as if trying to convince an angry bull to stop charging.

I shake the bag while it's upside-down, and sure enough, as I am about to give him a look of triumph, the zipper seal breaks, and the carrots spill all over the floor. I flash the detective a look of death as he gapes toward the floor in utter horror. Disgusted with his prediction, I throw the bag forcefully onto the floor with the vegetables, and walk back towards the kitchen. He hasn't been around yet a month, and I'm already stressed out to the max.

"You-you can't just… leave; they're everywhere!" After a quick panicked glance towards me, he shifts back towards that side of the couch, and looks down at the carrot pieces scattered all over the place, with my hastily thrown bag alongside them.

"If you paid me more, Mr. Monk, I wouldn't have to buy generic baggies." I try to be as polite as possible in my moment of humiliation, and he looks at me sourly.

"Sharona always bought Zi—"

I cut him off immediately with a loud exasperated sigh, already completely sick of being constantly compared with her.

"She's gone now, isn't she? No matter what she did for you then, she's not here anymore to do it." I fold my arms and lean against the doorway, waiting for his response.

He gapes in my general direction, and then slowly rises to his feet, because it's hard to see where I'm standing from his spot on the couch. He puts his hands out in an apologetic way, palms up near his waistline, as he prepares to speak. If he knew just how much he says with his hands, he'd probably have them tied behind his back.

"I'm sorry, Natalie, I didn't mean to compa—"

"It's okay. You were right about the bag." I glance off in the direction of the fish tank, too embarrassed at my childlike ravings to look him in the eye. "I just wish you hadn't mentioned it in the first place"—I steal a glance at him, as he is now looking down at the carrots—"because then the carrots wouldn't be all over the fl—"

He interrupts me with a throat clearing sound, and leans his upper body towards the carrots on the floor, as if inspecting them with a great amount of interest. "Are you going to cl... you know, clean them up?" he manages to say gruffly.

"Well, we can't eat 'em now," I scoff, raising my eyebrows. "I guess you'll have to deal with no carrots for tonight, Mr. Monk."

As I finish my sentence, I notice he's moving one leg back, his left; he's preparing to squat by the food. I don't say anything, hoping he'll continue what he's planning on doing, which I hope consists of cleaning up the mess. He lowers himself to the floor thoughtfully, and clasps his hands together as if trying to decide if the carrots are clean enough to touch.

"Wipe, wipe, wipe," he repeats in a soft, urgent tone. Loud enough for me to hear though. I head into the kitchen to get him a wipe when I suddenly realize I can do the job myself without wasting the money I'd use on the extra wipes. Even though I am now going to be receiving a bigger paycheck to help cover the expenses of such items, I want to save all the money I can. He seems startled when I return to couch-side in a matter of seconds, and stares up at me impatiently, expecting me to hand him a wipe. I squat down next to him, uncomfortably close across from him I notice, and look him right in the eye.

"I am going to clean this up myself, because then I don't have to waste a wipe doing it. I know you mean well, but you are costing me money." As I grab for the first pile of carrots to pick up, he puts his hand on mine, a strange gesture that almost throws me off balance. Monk, touching me with his bare hand? I'm assuming he wants me to stop.

The hurt is written all over his face, which is really close to mine right now, and his dark eyes take on this pleading puppy-dog look of distress, and indecision. He is using the puppy-dog face on me? I didn't think it was possible until now, but his slow, long expiration of breath during this time tells me that he had been holding it.

As quickly as his hand had appeared on mine, he removes it and wipes it verrrrry slowly on his pant leg, assuming I won't notice when it's done in slow motion or something. He's definitely tactless, if not a bit surprising.

"It's alright…I'll pick them up…" It's as if he's struggling for breath, for he practically hyperventilates between his words. "I don't need a w…" He scoffs gutturally and exhales. "a wipe." I watch his Adam's apple rise up and descend as he swallows hard. This germ stuff must truly scare him to death, for he has the look of a man forced to take the blame for a murder, at the mere thought of touching food without using hand wipes.

He timidly extends his hand again towards the carrots, and shuts his eyes as he closes his fingers around a bunch. My cell phone suddenly rings, jarring us both to temporarily lose our balance, and him to drop the carrots again onto the floor. I am the only one to rise, and I head to the kitchen to answer the phone.

I grab it and open it up, revealing that the call is from Captain Stottlemeyer's office, and I smile to know there'll be some money made with a new case.

"Hello?" I ask the receiver, although I know who's calling. A deep gruff voice answers. It is Captain Stottlemeyer.

"Hello, Natalie?"

"Yes, it's me, Captain. What's up?" I try to sound casual, but I am excited at the thought of a new case.

"Have Monk come down; a building across from the police station just blew up."

"What happened?" I am aching with curiosity.

He laughs spitefully. "Just what I told you, a building blew up. We don't know anything else yet."

"Alright, I'll bring him down. Thanks!" I close the cell phone with a click, feeling kind of insulted by the captain's treatment of me, like I'm a little kid, and I pace back over to where Monk is still bent down on the floor, a sickened look to his face as he holds the zip lock bag at ground level in his left hand and flings the carrots into it by flicking his fingers on the floor.

I stare at him until he is obviously uncomfortable; he can tell I'm staring at him even though he's concentrating on the carrots, and looks up at me with an irritated expression. "What is it?" he murmurs, as he continues his work. He must think I'm going to comment on his slow pick-up.

"That was Captain Stottlemeyer on the phone. He wants you to come down to the station now. A building blew up across the street."

He jumps to his feet with amazing agility, eyes wide with terror "Just now! I didn't hear it! Where's your fire extinguisher? Oh, God, oh God oh G—"

"Not across from my house, Mr. Monk, across from the police station. I doubt you would have heard it from here." I can't help but giggle about the fire extinguisher. "You think you can stand exactly eight feet away from a burning building and put it out?"

The detective glares me down. "It's… not… funny. Those are the instructions…." He goes to straighten his pants and, realizing his hands are covered with carrot juice, holds his hands out in front of him in horror.

"Okay, okay, I'll get you a wipe."

He starts to walk towards me, gaping at his hands and grumbling. "Never mind, I can wash my hands in your bathroom." He pauses a moment. "Are you ready to go?"

"Yes, but I know you won't be for another hour or so…"

He rolls his eyes, sighs deeply, and heads toward the bathroom, causing me to feel a pang of guilt at my comment. Once he reaches the closed door, he hesitates and looks back at me with his hands out to his sides.

"How kind of you, to not want to get the juice on the doorknob!" I smile at the respect he has for my house. "I'll get that for you."

Once he establishes himself in the bathroom and cautiously shuts the door in my face, I hear him turn on the taps. The water continues to run for five minutes and the agitation steadily increases.

"Please hurry, the evidence may be all gone before you get there." I stand anxiously outside the door with my arms crossed, hoping he listens.

Suddenly the door opens and he starts the tap back up, to rewash after touching the knob. Using a hand towel, he dries his hands and turns off the taps.

"What are you talking about, all gone?"

"Just what I said. The place exploded, Mr. Monk, so it's probably burning as we speak."

He steps sideways out of the doorway, not rubbing against me in any way, as I am blocking a good half of the opening.

"Okay, let's go," he states, half smiling. I think he's impressed himself with his timeliness. However, as we walk into the living room, a look of disgust crosses his face. "The carrots..." He points down at the floor as if it's hard to see them.

"I'll have Julie clean them up," I say. I give him the 'wait' signal and go to Julie's room, where she has been watching Full House reruns all day.

I tell Julie I'll be right back, and I ask her to please clean up the carrots and not to answer the door or phone or turn on the hair dryer or stove or curling iron, and we head toward the front door to my waiting SUV. He never lets the carrots leave his sight while we're in the house, and so I push him towards the door, and shut and lock it quickly before he changes his mind about the intact mess. Our trip to the vehicle is not as big a deal as the first time, because I had previously assured that all the windows were rolled up completely and that the door handles sparkled.

I notice that he doesn't use his sleeve to open the door this time; he simply gets in the vehicle and puts on his seat belt without incident. To show my appreciation and surprise, I flash a smile at him and we head to the station.

Upon reaching the station's block, we are greeted by a roadblock, along with the continual honking of countless fire trucks positioned in front of the torched building and the roar of their diesel engines spewing huge clouds of noxious vapors into the air.

We get out of the car, slowly, as if to avoid the sound and smell that awaits us in its fullness for as long as possible. I can see the captain jogging towards us from the sidewalk in front of the station. When he reaches us, I can tell that the fire isn't bothering him too much, for he is smiling.

"Record time, Monk," he says to the detective. He turns to me. "How'd you do it? Did ya force him out of the house?"

I laugh nervously, having just been paid a compliment by the police chief of San Francisco, and knowing what he said was partially true.

"Actually, I did have to pu—"

Monk cuts me off, shaking his head and putting his arm out in front of me as if barring me from more speech. "Do you know how it started, Captain?" he states matter-of-factly, and I know that Stottlemeyer will give him an actual guess and not degrade him with his response.

"We think it may have been a gas leak because of the explosion, but we still haven't entered the building.…"

"—The gas leak had to be inside the house, for it to be the only one to explode. Doesn't this block of commercial buildings use a… common gas source, to… cut down on the amount of tanks?"

"What are you proposing, Monk, that someone aimed to blow up that building?" I don't think Stottlemeyer had even considered the consultant's suggestion, instead making his own assumptions as to what Monk may have been thinking.

"Well… I'm… not sure yet." He shakes his head thoughtfully, watching as the firefighters unscrew one of the last limp fire hoses from the hydrant.

"I guess that means the fire is out," Stottlemeyer states, and we follow him to the scene of the fire, right behind the police tape and barriers.

"I thought you said this building exploded. It's almost totally intact, just burnt by the fire," Monk mumbles to the captain.

"Well, I had to exaggerate a little to get you down here quicker. It worked, didn't it?" He winks at me and continues walking at his fast pace to the front of the building.

A slew of firefighters run out of the building, panting with exertion. "There's a body!" one yells, as he heads back to the fire engine.

"Why didn't you bring it out, fellas?" the captain responds. An especially sooty fireman, apparently the leader of the group, strolls over casually with a gas mask half off his face, exposing his sooty chin. He coughs several times, spitting out a blackish hocker on the ground in front of us. Monk jumps away in disgust.

"It looks like ash and bones, it'd fall apart." His voice is muffled, but he doesn't take off the gas mask.

"Tell your men to retrieve it. We're not just going to... leave it up there because it's ashy. Besides, you still have your gas mask on." He suddenly gets a tickle in his nose and sneezes, to which I respond with "Bless you."

"Why don't you look for yourself, Captain?" Laughing indignantly, the fireman simply walks away, not even acknowledging the captain's orders.

"Geez, what a jerk," I mumble. Mr. Monk seems curious about the body, and makes this immediately known to the captain.

"Something's not right here," he murmurs. "He…he obviously wants the police force to see the bo—"

"Do you think this is some kind of a crime scene, Monk? People die in fires every day. I don't know what his problem is, but it's not our problem."

"The-there's just something… something's not… sitting right with me…."

The captain seems to ponder a moment, then rolls his eyes and nods as if agreeing to go along with Monk's instinct.

"Well, let's check it out then," he says with a sighing tone.

After we step over the tape and Monk takes his time to go all the way around, in case some soot should rub off on his clothes, the captain greets another firefighter.

"How badly is the woodwork burnt? Is it safe to go upstairs?"

"Actually," the firefighter begins, with an air of superiority at his being questioned by the SFPD captain, "the stairs are the least burnt in the whole house. Not one board is charred. It's the strangest thing. Are you going up to see the body?"

"Why, yes I am," the captain states confidently.

"We thought it looked like a suicide. I'm sure you'll agree, Sir." I can tell that Monk has heard the firefighter as well, for he puts his hand to his chin and stares off into space.

"A suicide..." Captain Stottlemeyer, now deep in thought, proceeds to walk around the firefighter, but is stopped by another one.

"You're going to need to wear a gas mask, sir," the stocky man insists, waving one of the ugly things in front of his face. As the captain slips the ungainly mask over his face and heads through the charred doorway, Monk steps up beside me.

"Wh-what if it's a trap?" He twitches his shoulders and neck a few times as he clasps his hands together in front of him. "He's… just gonna take their word for it?"

"You're awfully paranoid, Mr. Monk."

Without acknowledging my comment, he heads into the building after the captain, and I can't help but hope a firefighter cuts him off and hands him one of those… things. He'd turn right back around, because I'm sure he'd rather die than put one of those over his head. Of course, I never actually expected him to enter a burnt-out building either….