A/N: Hey all! Thanks for the reviews on the last chapter, they really do inspire me to write more! OK sorry I couldn't upload this yesterday, but lots of people were off sick at work so I ended up covering for one of them.

This chapter is a little different, and is again very short, as there is absolutely no dialogue in this one, but I added some, but then took it away because I thought it just worked a lot better like this! So enjoy this short little piece of madness that has escaped my mind! I really was growing attached to poor old Frankie!

Disclaimer: Nope, do you really think I would be trusted to look after these brilliant people?

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Frank Walsh didn't like to snoop, he didn't like to be in situations where he felt uncomfortable, but unfortunately that was the position he found himself in now, surrounded by forty-something women all speaking at once in a language he wasn't quite sure he understood. If only he'd kept his big mouth shut. That would be what his wife would have told him if she were still around today. Poor Enid, she'd succumbed to old age much earlier than she'd ever wanted to. They'd only been married twenty years when she passed away six months ago, but they were twenty of the happiest years of his life. They'd met on a wilderness trip, him a newly divorcée, needing a new outlook on life and her being dragged along by her then-husband. They'd shared a couple of cheeky moments in the bathroom of the cold wooden cabins, high up in the mountains. Oh he had stories and a half to tell, but it just so happened that it had to be this one.

It had started a couple of weeks ago, Memorial Day to be precise. He could remember because he'd watched the parade, it was a tradition he and Enid used to do. He then stopped back at work, he had a feeling he'd left one of the drains uncovered in the women's bathroom the night before. In his old age he was getting more and more forgetful, a trait he blames on the grandkids, forever hitting him around the head. He stopped by the supply closet on the way in, slipping quickly into his overalls, leaving his jacket on the hook on the back of the door. When he came back, thirty minutes later, after searching every woman's bathroom in the building and finally realizing that the cover had in fact been replaced, he noticed his jacket folded across the top of a broom handle. He brushed it off as another sign of old age. And that's what he did now, every time he found something in that closet amiss.

First it was his jacket, then a few mops and brushes were leant in all directions instead of neatly lined up against the wall like how he liked it. After that it became a lot more frequent, nearly every day he would go into that closet and find something out of place. It wasn't until one day last week when he finally realized what was happening in that little closet of his. He'd set about fixing a leak in one of the sinks in autopsy, his least favorite part of the building, even if it did house his great friend Ducky. He'd seen a body or two in his life, but it still never got rid of the creepy feeling crawling up the back of his neck every time he was near one. Well any way back to the story.

He was down in autopsy, fixing a leak, when he realized he'd left the spare part back upstairs. He made his way slowly back up the stairs, he refused to use the elevator, damn things always break down. The supply closet was located at the end of the corridor which accommodated the break room and several other small rooms that no one seemed to have a use for. It wasn't until he neared the end of the corridor and was reaching out to turn the handle that he heard it. He'd been quite the playboy in his younger years, so there was no mistaking that noise, a deep, throaty moan of a woman at the height of pleasure. He retreated a few steps and contemplated what to do next. When he heard a much loader moan, accompanied by a deeper, unmistakable voice of a man he quickly stepped back, further along the corridor, turning his slow shuffle into a brisk walk. Maybe he'd look for the part somewhere else.

At least he could finally rest assured that he wasn't losing his mind. So now every time he went to enter the closet he would knock loudly, just in case he happened to walk in on something he was sure may just tip his old ticker over the edge. Luckily for him, he never happened to catch them in the act again, but still there were little clues giving up their presence, the biggest being yesterday, he walked in there to find a mop bucket had been tipped over, its contents spilt all over the floor.

He'd never actually given a thought to who the mystery occupants of the cupboard could be, until he heard the rumor. He put two and two together, he may be old, but he still had a few lights left on in him. So that was how he now found himself, joining in with the office gossip. He'd told his story at least a dozen times now, and whenever someone asked how they could go from doing it in the supply closet to literally shooting daggers at each other, he'd reply simply, that one of them fell in the mop bucket and both of them are too stubborn to admit it was their fault.

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A/N: So what did you think? Have I gone one step too far? And I know, I know it was short, but I think youu should review, even if it just to tell me how short and silly it was!