The Wrong Note

Mr. Monk Solves the Case (and Allison Dubois Pays the Price)

Ah yes, the longest chapter, where Shit Goes Down lmao. I hope you enjoy!

xXx

Sure enough, Monk and Sharona were the ones at the door. Monk was still wearing the same brown suit from earlier in the day, but Sharona had changed into a black jacket and deep magenta top paired with her usual gold 'S' necklace and blue bootcut jeans. Her ever-present black purse hung over her right shoulder.

"Hi, Allison, I'm so sorry we're here early," Sharona said while Monk, exasperated, rolled his eyes behind her. "I tried to explain to Adrian the concept of fashionably late, but—"

"There's no such thing!" Monk protested. "Being late is bad, there's nothing fashionable about it. In fact, 'fashionable' doesn't even make sense as a modifier to 'late'—"

Sharona cut him off with a sigh. "It's a figure of speech, Adrian."

Allison decided that was her cue to stem the tide before more waves could come crashing in. "Don't worry, we're just about ready. Come inside!" She held the door open. "Dinner's already prepared. Once I gather my crew, we can eat."

"Perfect," Sharona said as she stepped through the threshold, Monk a few feet behind her. She took a deep inhale. "Wow, it smells incredible! I feel like you're about to spoil us, Allison."

"Well, there's a lot of pressure on my shoulders," Allison teased as she closed and locked the front door. "This is your first non-hotel meal in Phoenix—I have to make it count."

"Oh, I'm sure it'll be amazing," Sharona said. "The bar's so low it's practically in hell."

Allison laughed. Fair enough—most hotels weren't of luxury quality, and certainly not one Phoenix PD was paying for. "Our dining room is right over here," she said, stepping in front of the two and gesturing to her left. "You can sit—"

Allison was abruptly cut off as she ran face-first into a men's navy blue dress shirt.

"You can meet my husband, actually," Allison corrected with a wide grin, turning around to extend introductions. "Sharona, Mr. Monk, this is my husband, Joe. Joe, this is Adrian Monk and Sharona Fleming."

"I have heard great things about you both," Joe said, shaking Sharona's hand and then Monk's. "Allison says that without you two on the case..." He trailed off, brow furrowing as Monk snapped for a wipe.

"Don't worry, it's not personal," Sharona reassured Joe as she handed Monk a towelette from a fresh pack in her purse. "Adrian has a thing about germs. He's like this with everyone."

"It's true, I am," Monk said, wiping his hands. Sharona dropped the used wipe back into her purse when he was done.

There was a momentary pause, but Joe shook off his confusion and continued. "Allison tells me your help has been instrumental with the current case."

"Well, I wouldn't say we—" Monk was interrupted by a snicker from Sharona, who waved her hand apologetically when he frowned at her.

"Sorry, sorry. I just"—she snickered again—"instrumental. Y'know, they're all musicians?"

A laugh escaped Allison's lips, too, while Monk's frown only deepened.

"I don't understand."

Sharona sighed, patting him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, boss. Your funny bone will heal eventually."

Monk shifted his shoulders at her touch. "Doubtful."

Allison didn't need to be psychic to know an awkward silence was about to fall, so she took the initiative before said silence had a chance to set in. "Joe, why don't you go round up the girls?" she suggested. "I'll sit Mr. Monk and Sharona at the table."