Two days passed and he wasn't improving. Things actually seemed to be getting worse. Now he had periods of chill with periods of intense sweating, and had to convince himself not to call the hospital about his condition. A constant headache persisted, and he coughed throughout the night, waking himself up on many occasions.

He had lain in bed most of the time, only arising to use the restroom or idly sip some tea or soup. Occasionally he had to emerge from the bed to arrange the covers to correspond to his rapidly fluctuating body temperature for the sake of comfort. His newspapers lay out on the doormat, for he had forgotten to collect them. The salt water gurgle he had done the day after the symptoms first appeared had made him gag, and he swore that he would never try that again.

Is this what dying is like? he mused, as he lay under the layers of blankets, teeth chattering. What could he have possibly done to deserve such abandonment? She didn't even care how he was coping, now that she left. All Sharona could think about was herself, and her good-for-nothing husband. It was hard enough losing Trudy, and now he would have to deal with dying alone.At least there was a happy ending, seeing Trudy again….

He hadn't felt so depressed since his wife's death, and his illness only made matters worse. "What day is it?" he mumbled to himself, switching to a football game with his remote control. It was definitely serious, what he had. He didn't even feel like cleaning, or eating, or… breathing….

The shrill ring abruptly stopped his thoughts. He reached for it instinctively yet woozily, causing the receiver to fall off the cradle and hang off the side of the nightstand. His keen ears picked up the sound of the male voice saying 'hello' questioningly on the other end, and he sighed. When was she going to call? Ever again?

He sighed again as he pulled the receiver up by its cord, until he was able to lift it to ear-level.

"Hello," he mumbled solemnly.

"Adrian?" the voice said. It was Dr. Kroger. His psychiatrist had been calling him to check up on him a couple of times a week, but they had usually been very short conversations that were very easily forgotten.

"Yes, it's me."

"Are you alright; I heard a banging earlier. You don't sound so hot. What's wrong?" the psychiatrist asked.

"I—I don't know. I think I'm—I'm reaching the end…."

"What are you talking about, Adrian? Tell me what's wrong."

The detective coughed loudly several times, bringing up a gob of mucus into his throat. He had covered his mouth to prevent blasting out his doctor's ears, but now he was covering his mouth for a different reason: nausea had arisen. Before he could register just what the slimy object was, he impulsively swallowed it back down.

"Adrian? Are you there? Do you want me to come over there?"

He paused, considering. He really did miss having company, but he didn't want Dr. Kroger to acquire his illness.

"I'm here…." He swallowed a couple more times, to ensure the glob was truly gone. "Y-you can't come over; I don't want you to catch—whatever this is that I have…."

"It's alright, Adrian," the kindly doctor responded. "I have never actually known you to get sick before, so I'll take my risks."

"B-but… it's terrible!" Monk exclaimed hoarsely. "I won't let you come in here!"

"Now, you know that's not true. I'm sure that you'd enjoy some company."

"—I really don't want you to ge—"

"I just want to see how you are doing. You haven't been to a session in a few weeks, and I'd like to see you. Is that okay with you, Adrian?"

He was confused, unable to make a decision as to how to answer. He had been craving company for months, some smidgen of the attention he had had when married to Trudy, and when paired with Sharona. The women in his life he had come to depend on, and both of them had left him in their own ways. His male friends—well, if you could count Stottlemeyer—that was about it, and he regretted making more when he was still—decently normal. Dr. Kroger was being paid to be his friend, but it didn't matter at this point. He was desperate to talk to someone face-to-face, and his psychiatrist didn't seem worried about his illness.

"Alright…. That's fine…. But don't say I didn't warn you—"

The doctor chuckled. "I'll be okay, Adrian; I want to make sure that you are."

They hung up shortly afterwards after making a meeting time of 2 pm, and the detective immediately realized the extent of what he had to do. He'd have to shave, and shower, and do laundry, and vacuum and dust and sterilize everything he'd touched. He glanced over at the alarm clock. It was noon. He'd never have time….

He shuffled into the bathroom, examining his face in the mirror. His lips were cracked and dry and had a slight bluish tint, and he immediately wondered why. Oh,God, I look like a corpse, he thought worriedly, running a hand across his stubbly cheek. He practically had a moustache from the lack of shaving. Apparently all those years of shaving twice a day had caused the hairs to grow in overdrive, because he had much more than a 5 o'clock shadow. Panic rose in his throat at the sight of his bluish lips, and he immediately turned to the bathtub and stepped in, fully clothed. He couldn't look at himself anymore; well, actually he never could. He'd never get everything done before Kroger arrived if he stared at his face all day….

After removing his clothes and shutting his eyes to avoid seeing his own nudity, a routine practice of his, he turned on the tap and tested the water continually for a hint of warmth streaming through the pipes. Eventually it arrived, and he pulled the coral-colored shower curtain all the way over and the dial out to allow for the water to spout out of the showerhead.

It ended up being one of the shortest showers he had ever taken. He was done in 45 minutes, spending most of the time attempting to rub whatever substance was dyeing his lips off of them. He had become a bit lightheaded yet he had a pounding headache, and felt the intense urge to sit down. Feeling faint, he had plopped down in the bathtub and remained seated with eyes closed for about ten minutes, as the showerhead continued spurting water upon him. Somehow this irritant was easy to ignore, and his head was completely clear of all thoughts, for once. Nothing existed now but the dimness of the shower enclosure and the warmth cascading down, and he didn't even notice the small cobweb that had formed along the ceiling in the two-day neglect of its condition.

He emerged from the bathroom shortly afterwards, wearing a white t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants. He would have preferred something cooler, like boxers, but he didn't wear boxers so he had to deal with the sweatiness of the flannel on his legs. He had somehow forgotten to dry off completely, so it had been a difficult task trying to pull the clothes on over the dampness of his skin. His hair was matted to his head in tight curls, and he ignored it for the time being, because he could sense that his lips were still blue.

He then noticed what time it was, and realized he only had an hour to get the laundry done and the place sterilized. Neglecting to fix his hair and shave, he began to pull the sheets and covers off the bed, folding them into neat little squares that he deposited in the laundry basket. He then grabbed his pajama top from the bathroom and other clothes items that he had worn in the past three days and placed them in the basket as well.

This process had taken almost 40 minutes, just to gather up all of the laundry. When he finally put on his slippers and groggily made his way for the apartment laundry room, he realized the extent of his sickness. He was weak and listless; his head throbbed continually and he couldn't stop clearing his throat. And he could sense it; his lips were still blue!

It was too late to start the laundry now. Dr. Kroger would arrive in approximately ten minutes. He picked up the forgotten newspapers on his doormat and went back inside his apartment, placing the newspapers on the kitchen island and the filled basket on the other side of his bed so it was not in plain sight. He quickly wiped out the shower and the previously fogged-up mirror and saw that his hair was beginning to dry without having been combed first.

Couldn't he remember to do anything? He looked like hell. Maybe he'd just—not let Dr. Kroger in the house.Then the doctor would be safe, and wouldn't see what a slob he'd become. A sick, lazy, blue-lipped slob….

He combed his hair quickly and applied some deodorant since sweat seemed to be pouring from his body. He probably had a fever. He hoped and prayed that he wouldn't get nausea next….

There was a knock at the door. He began to approach it, and then decided to let Dr. Kroger stay out there, for he was most definitely contagious. However, this plan didn't work, because he had left his door unlocked after deciding he had no time to do his laundry. He watched in utter horror as the door opened and the psychiatrist stepped through, realizing the extent of what he had done. He had forgotten to lock the door….

"Hello, Adrian," Dr. Kroger said warmly. "Looks like you just got out of the shower."

"Uhm—yes, I did," the detective said, rubbing the back of his neck to remove the sticky feeling. For some reason he could feel his heartbeat pounding in his chest, like he had just finished the 800 meter dash, and another chill passed through him.

"When was the last time you shaved?" As the doctor walked down the hallway, approaching Monk, the detective retreated, leaning on the bathroom door for support.

"It was—uh—three days ago," he mumbled hoarsely, clearing his throat afterwards.

"How are you feeling, Adrian? Would you like to talk about it?" The smile that the doctor was giving him was too happy for his current mindset.

"Well—if you can't tell by looking at me—" he motioned to his unkempt face, and his choice of clothing, and attempted to smile.

The psychiatrist stood directly in front of him now, cornering him by the bathroom door. "Your lips are blue, Adrian; why are they blue? Did you eat som—"

Suddenly, the detective got on a coughing jag, and turned to face the wall as each cough hit him, agitating the mucous build-up in his throat. It was so disgusting, what the coughs were bringing up into his throat, that he dashed into the bathroom and spit the gobs up in the sink. Dr. Kroger was quite concerned by all of this and followed his patient into the bathroom, watching as the greenish substance washed down the sink drain, and Monk's frightened expression at seeing it.

"Adrian," he said, putting a hand on the man's heaving shoulder, "I think we need to get you to the hospital."

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The detective complied with his psychiatrist's request. His illness had gotten too horrible to bear, and it was nice to talk to someone again about his feelings. He sat in the passenger's seat in his damp white t-shirt and pajama pants, with a heavy jacket draped over his shoulders that Dr. Kroger had grabbed from his armoire while he was putting on his socks. He had slipped on the pair of tennis shoes he had gotten from Tonday Mawwaka, and recalled the race against Trevor McDowell that he had won, in which he had caught up with the fugitive murder suspect and tackled him on the beach. He'd probably never be able to do something like that again.

"We're here, Adrian," Dr. Kroger commented, placing a hand on his knee, as they sat in the hospital outpatient parking lot. "Are you alright?"

He snapped out of his trance and glanced slowly about him. "Where are we?" he asked, unsure of his surroundings. He had apparently forgotten the meaning of the trip, and sat stiffly in the seat with his eyes closed, feeling light-headed.

"The hospital," was the reply. They pulled around to the emergency entrance and Dr. Kroger jumped out of the vehicle, approaching the emergency workers walking around in their blue outfits.

"My patient—Adrian Monk—he's in the car," he said, pointing at the vehicle. "He's very sick, and has become delirious."

"What kind of doctor are you?" one asked, as he followed Dr. Kroger to the car.

"A psychiatrist."

They crossed over to the passenger side of the vehicle and opened the door. Monk looked up at them, unsure of what to do.

"Come on, Adrian; can you get up out of the car?"

"Oh, didn't realize he was a cop," the EMT commented, as he noticed the jacket around Monk's shoulders. Dr. Kroger had inadvertently grabbed one of his old police force jackets from the armoire in his hurry to get his patient to the hospital, and immediately regretted what effects it might have on Monk's state of mind.

Did he just say… a cop?Oh, God, was this a return to… the day Trudy died? He remembered… the EMTs…. He pictured that horrible day unfolding, and tears came to his eyes.

He had just gotten off work and was returning home, about 15 minutes away, in fact, when he had first heard the sirens. Sounded like thousands of them, and their wails had shaken his psyche, and so he had sped the last few miles to where Trudy would be waiting for him, safe and sound, in their home.

She had had the day off from her job with The Examiner. She had called him at work during his lunch break, telling him that she loved him and couldn't wait until he returned home. This was a daily occurrence, though, he remembered. She'd call on her lunch break and usually he'd be around the station, and they'd talk for ten minutes or so about the day's happenings: any news she had uncovered, or any criminals he had caught, etc. He'd tell her jokes and she'd respond accordingly with her pleasant and appreciative laugh. They'd laugh together, sharing little tidbits of information that they both found interesting, and say little flirty things. And no matter what, Adrian and Trudy both always made sure to say I love you before they hung up the phone. It was one of the last things he had heard her say.

The sirens had incited some panic in him, as he drove her car home. He then recalled that she would probably be there, and that he shouldn't worry incessantly as he always did. She had offered to get his car washed since she had nothing else to do all day, and he had appreciated the thoughtfulness of his beloved wife.

As he approached the apartment, there was no sign of his car in sight. Even so, he parked and scanned the block upon exiting the vehicle, hoping that maybe she had had to park it down the street further. It was nowhere to be found, and so he dashed for the door, feeling his heart rate increasing. Something was definitely wrong.

He had slammed open the door to find that the lights were out and the house was silent. Where could she have gone? The car washes in the area were usually closed by this time. It was then that the phone rang…

Maybe it was Trudy, to tell him she was going to be late…. He doubted it though, and this gut feeling made his knees go weak as he approached the ringing telephone.

"Monk, is that you?" It was Stottlemeyer. His voice sounded tight, strained, like he was holding his breath.

"Yes, it's me," he said carefully. "What's wrong?"

"It's—" he sighs, "—Trudy."

"Oh my God, what happened? Where is she? Is she alright?" He could feel his voice shaking and eyes watering, and had to pull up a stool for support, because his legs were on the verge of collapse.

There was a pause, as Stottlemeyer tried to form the words. "She's here—at the hospital." It was impossible to know what to say to his friend. "You might want to come do—"

"Is she alright?" his voice was breaking up at this point. There was a terrifying pause, and Adrian soon realized he had to leave now. "I'll be right there," he cried, allowing for the tears to drip from his eyes.

It was like a bad dream. He had pulled the car up in front of the emergency entrance, the very same entrance he was at now. He had left the keys in her car, leaving it idling in the corridor, and had raced into the building.

Captain Stottlemeyer was waiting for him by the desk. "Adrian—" he said, touching his shoulder as he ran towards him. "I'll take you to her. She's… gonna be okay."

His heart was racing and his eyes were fogged with tears. The captain had to support him as he walked into her room, where she was laying motionless in the hospital bed. The captain let them have this time to themselves, for he knew it wouldn't be long…

Adrian immediately ran to his wife's side and knelt down next to her, enclosing her cold hand in his warm one. Her skin was ashen, blotched with caked blood and soot. She was connected to dozens of whirring and beeping machines, and there were tubes, wires, and IVs running into her arms, and her chest, and her wrists… Her beautiful blonde hair was darkened with ash, soot, and dried blood, as well as her fair face. He tenderly stroked her cheek, and she looked over at him with eyes brimming with tears.

"Adrian," she moaned hoarsely. "I'm so glad you came."

He wiped away her tears, leaning in and kissing the palm of her icy hand. "Everything is going to be all right, Trudy," he murmured softly, his voice breaking. "You're going to be fine, honey…."

"Kiss me, Adrian," she whispered. He could feel the tears brimming in his eyes, and hoped she wouldn't notice them. He leaned in and they kissed one last time, a kiss that conveyed the love they felt for each other and would always feel for each other.

As he emerged from the kiss, he watched his wife's face. A smile formed on her cracked and charred lips as she gazed at him lovingly and mouthed 'I love you,' as tears streamed down her blackened cheeks.

"I love you too, Trudy," Adrian murmured, his voice faltering as he gazed into her eyes. He entwined his fingers within Trudy's slender fingers, and watched her as he kissed her hand.

She squeezed his hand weakly, closing her eyes as she murmured her last words. "Bread and butter."

Adrian gasped, horrified at what she could have possibly meant by the comment they had used with each other to refer to temporary separation, like releasing their handhold between lampposts. She was leaving him? A chill ran through his entire body as she released her last breath.

The machine flat-lined and the bells began to ring in his head as the emergency workers rushed in to the room to try to revive her. He remained knelt next to the bed, holding her hand in his own, realizing her chest was no longer rising and falling with each breath. One of the workers pulled him away from the bed as they attempted to revive her with the defibrillator, but it was to no avail. He was being held back by two workers, now three, now Captain Stottlemeyer as well, as he tried to return to her room, to her side. It was as if he had gone insane, yanking and pulling like some kind of animal, desperate to be near her again. He felt no rational thought; he was crazed and inconsolable.

"You're not gonna lose her," he heard the captain repeating to him over and over and over as he held him back, the deep voice hollow and quivering echoing throughout his mind, along with the thud of the defibrillators and the constant high-pitched drone of the heart machine, indicating the lack of a heartbeat.

After a matter of minutes that seemed like hours, he watched in horror as the workers unplugged the machines from her lifeless body and drew the sheets up over her neck, then her face—

"P-please, d-don't cover her up," he cried, as the workers paused to look at him. He broke free of the men and dropped down at Trudy's bedside again, clutching her hand in his own and running his hand along her face, which still was moist from her tears.

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It had seemed like an eternity that he remained in the room with her body, whispering to her everything he wanted her to know, his intense and undying love for her that could never subside, could never fade. Somehow the captain had gotten him to leave the building, but he couldn't remember exactly how. He recalled being escorted to Stottlemeyer's car, feeling numb and devoid of everything, an empty shell. His vision was clouded by the tears he had outpoured, and his heart had seemed to sink into the pit of his stomach. He had been wearing his police uniform this entire time, and one of the emergency workers had commented on his being a cop as he was being lowered into the vehicle.

The two men noisily beckoned for Monk to stand up, snapping him out of his tearful reverie with their incessant nudging and murmuring. He had returned to the reality of the situation, but not completely. Their voices sounded foreign to him, and he stared in horror as they continued to speak to him. That was when the situation became too much to bear, and he lost consciousness.

Review, pleeeease. And thank you for reviewing, jmcqk6, dorothy, Kiera Kay, laalaalaa, chelsea, and Early Riser7! I appreciate it thoroughly:)