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Natalie Teeger's House - San Francisco - Late Morning [20 Apr 2005|02:34am]

[ mood | anxious ]

Natalie woke early that morning, preparing for the usual phone call from Adrian Monk, for her to drive him wherever he'd need to go. However, this particular morning it was different. The house had a strange silence, and even Julie asked her mother what was going on, if she and the sleuth had had an argument.

"No, nothing out of the ordinary. He usually calls by this time," she replied.

She had gotten used to being depended on by the former detective, and scratched her head as she stared at the blank answering machine and the silent phone.

"Julie, did you erase any messages this morning? Wait, never mind--"

She then realized that Adrian Monk hated to leave messages on answering machines, and she thought back to whatever phone conversations she was involved with that morning. None. Monk was the only person who called her anymore. It made her feel melancholy, to have such a reduced social life.

Could Monk be hurt? Could he be immobilized, unable to reach the phone? The blonde assistant couldn't help but jump to conclusions. Adrian had always been so routine, and now he himself was deviating from it. She glanced over at the receiver, considering calling her employer.

Eh, he probably won't hear it, she mused. He's probably vacuuming away at the moment...

1 Room straightened| Grab a wipe

P.I. Seminar - Newark, New Jersey - Evening [23 Feb 2005|08:14pm]

[ mood | thirsty ]

Forty minutes.

Straight through, little delay. Of course, he’d gunned it every chance he got.

House considered driving right by the glaring blue, happily boxed handicapped spaces. But then the crammed parking garage crawled into view. Time to go home already? My, it does fly when you’re having fun.

Screw it.

He had to reach over the hand controls (which he rarely used) sticking out of his car's scruffy interior and shuffled crap in the glove box five full minutes before he could find the tag for its mirror. If the cane was too subtle, he’d always have the big sign plastered on his windshield.

The seminar itself proved mildly enlightening, though he wouldn’t go so far with the company; lazy wannabe cops, at best. The most he’d glean from these morons was where to get a cheap cup of coffee. He mostly tried to blend in, genuinely unenthusiastic to meet any conversation. As much as he’d adore a good shot of caffeine just now.

House remained seated as the crowd began to rise and thin, content to wait until he could stand without drawing more attention than was absolutely necessary. Funny how some people needed to stare; the leg was a goddamn aphrodisiac for ignorant curiosity. He spun the head of his cane around in his palm before leaning hard into it and hopping to his feet. The chair slid back with a short squeal.

[ Open to Sharona ]

10 Rooms straightened| Grab a wipe

[22 Feb 2005|05:49pm]

Two days he had been here a total of two days. Two days in which he was supposed to relax. Was not a the meaning of vacation relaxation and enjoyment. But how could he enjoy it when he was so worried about Marissa and how she was handleing the complications that where arising. "Maybe I should have never left Chicago. No it was the right thing to do it had to be," raced across his mind as he got ready for bed. "Tonight I shall sleep...I promise myself that I shall not wake up no matter what...it can't follow me here so why wait for it? No tonight I sleep."

It was exactly 6:28 and Gary as true to his word was fast asleep. Outside of his room a small shadow detached itself from the shadows and walk right up to his door....
Grab a wipe

PHONE - SFPD to Monk's Apartment [22 Feb 2005|03:43pm]

[ mood | contemplative ]

When Monk reentered the apartment – setting down his single bag of groceries so that he didn’t risk compromising the shiny brass plate as he pressed the key into its lock – he moved toward the kitchen slowly. His thoughts were still somewhat removed from reality – even his version of reality – so he didn’t actually register the phone ringing until he was standing right next to it. Startled, Monk spun in a full circle before deciding where to put the large paper bag. Then he reached for the receiver.


[ Open to Stottlemeyer ]

13 Rooms straightened| Grab a wipe

On the way to the nearest convenience store - San Francisco - Late Morning [20 Feb 2005|04:58pm]

[ mood | melancholy ]

After going through the obligatory forty strokes of his toothbrush, cleaning the bathroom, and dressing, Monk had to force himself out the door. He really wasn’t in any sort of mood to go walking alone, but he needed… things. Groceries. Or maybe he just needed to get out. The former, of course, was easier to admit to.

One of those moods had descended upon the detective again – a depression rooted firmly in the recent loss of his assistant. Assistant? No. He had… enough help with Natalie around. What he’d really -- really -- lost had been much more.

As he came out of his room, Monk hovered near the telephone a moment, thinking to call Natalie for a ride, but thought better of it after considering what shopping with her would entail. True – if he went alone, he’d have to pick everything up himself, press through the crowd, and handle the change. But he’d have to do it anyway with Natalie, and then endure her censure every time he squirmed a little.

And so he left the phone and went back to the closet for his coat and then the bathroom for a box of wipes, casting at least three nervous glances back at the telephone cradle before mustering the courage to leave. Alone.

While he walked, Monk’s thoughts remained firmly trained on Sharona. It was… miserable. He couldn’t turn them elsewhere, couldn’t focus on the cracks on the sidewalk as his keen mind tallied them. The speed and intensity at which memories circled his skull cracked a bolt of nausea in his gut.

Yeah. That curse thing again. Without a case, the ex-cop’s uncanny focus was left reaching for the first thing that came to mind – Sharona. And the decision he'd tried to understand a thousand times.

He hadn’t been selfish to resent (and worry about) her for leaving, had he? The whole thing was just… illogical. Monk had been there almost every single day; a constant companion; a friend. Other than a jerk, what was Trevor? Wasn’t he the same man that had caused her so much grief during her marriage? The guy that had tried to use his son and ex-wife for extra cash? It made no sense…

…and senselessness liked to give him a headache.

1 Room straightened| Grab a wipe

New Jersey - Sharona's House - Late Morning [19 Feb 2005|09:54pm]

[ mood | aggravated ]

“1..2..3..4..5..6...” Sharona counted out loud as she picked up a wet towel off the floor of the bathroom. She was very close to losing her temper, and counting to ten would either help her combat that...or it would make her out of breath enough that she couldn't yell at those who had put those wet towels on the floor. Opening the hamper, she saw that it was full to the rim of dirty clothes, threatening to spill out onto the floor. “7..8..9” She dragged the hamper out of the bathroom and set it nearby the laundry basket full of clothes she had already gathered from her and Trevor’s bedroom.

Sharona sighed as she looked at the pile of laundry; this was at least 3 loads worth…and she hadn’t even gotten to Benjy’s room yet. Although lately Benjy had just been wearing the same baggy jeans and black sweatshirt, so she didn’t anticipate as much laundry as Trevor accumulated. She didn’t have any idea how that man created as much stuff as he did. Dirty laundry all over the bedroom, wet towels on the bathroom floor, messy dishes in the living room, and muddy shoes on the kitchen floor. It was the muddy shoes that bothered her the most. She had asked Trevor to take his shoes off, but he refused to do it; and every time she saw those shoes she had to get out the Swiffer and mop up the mess. Maybe it was a Monk thing.

Sharona paused at that thought. She had talked to Adrian Monk a few times, but they hadn’t really shared anything since she came back her to try things out with Trevor. Adrian didn’t really want her to go, and it wasn’t till she had left that she realized his protests weren’t only about leaving him without help. Adrian didn’t trust Trevor, didn’t trust that he would be the best for her and Benjy. But she had left anyway. Come all the way to Jersey to try and see if she could make this relationship work. Trevor wanted to get married…but she wasn’t sure yet. She wasn’t sure that she felt like that with him. Like she felt like her home was here in Jersey. Home seemed warmer. Home seemed closer to a bay. Home seemed…filled with crime, and cops, and one ‘defective detective.’ But she had promised to make a try.

A series of thumps sounded behind her, and Sharona turned in time to see both the hamper and the basket tumble down the stairs, knocking into the bookshelf at the landing and tipping a vase of flowers onto the floor. Sharona sat on the top stair and stared at the clothes, flowers and broken glass below her. She felt something wet underneath her and she reached down, pulling a wet towel up and staring at it.

"10" With that, Sharona tossed the towel onto the mess below her.

She hadn’t promised to try for very long…

Grab a wipe

Monk's Apartment - San Francisco - Morning [19 Feb 2005|01:44pm]

[ mood | bored ]

The elegant stacks of silverware gleamed around the shadow cast by the countertop into the open drawer. It was unreal – for any sane person – to see the way each fork lined up with the one below it; someone could look through the tines, in fact, to see the bottom of the plastic tray.

Adrian Monk, though, was not very interested in this phenomenon. He was just looking for an excuse to fix something. And he definitely wouldn’t find it here.

With the utmost care, he rolled the drawer shut, glanced over the pristine tabletop, then the sink, and then wandered into his bedroom to shower and dress.

[Open to any phone calls]

Grab a wipe

San Francisco Police Department (CAP Squadroom) - San Francisco, morning [19 Feb 2005|10:41am]

[ mood | cheerful ]

Randy Disher had his own personal routine every morning when he arrived at the Crimes Against Persons squadroom.

He went straight to his desk, where he checked his e-mail and his voice mail for anything important that might have come in while he was gone.

He checked the white board that kept track of all important announcements and cases and their primaries to see if there was anything new or anything had changed.

He took a glance at the material in his inbox and the newspaper headlines to make sure he was aware of anything he needed to be aware of.

He mentally formulated his to-do list for the day.

Then he went into Captain Stottlemeyer's office and reported anything of note, got the instructions he'd need, and set to work on everything on his list.

Randy sank into his chair, sorting the last couple of papers that had come in as he'd left yesterday. Mostly reports - canvasses, statements - nothing really too useful on the Landell case. But then, he often argued, everything was useful in some way, eventually, right? It was the kind of methodology that had led him to walking bombed-out alleys for 20 minutes searching for one lone piece of evidence while the captain stood by the car waiting for him, a look between amusement and annoyance on his face.

He took a glance into the captain's office, hoping Stottlemeyer would be in a better mood, but understanding that his captain had a lot more to deal with than he did. As a lieutenant, Randy just supervised the detectives and did some of the fieldwork. He didn't have two kids and a wife who liked to remind him of all his domestic chores. He had a copy of Anchorman that had a day and approximately half an hour left on it.

Finally, he straightened his tie and walked into the office, knocking on the door frame as he entered. One more day down, right? he told himself.

"Morning, Captain." He held up the piece of paper between thumb and forefinger. "Official autopsy results. Definitely a homicide. Bullet went straight through his neck." Strange as that was...

6 Rooms straightened| Grab a wipe

Princeton-Plainsboro teaching hospital (OB/GYN Lounge) - Princeton, New Jersey - Early morning [19 Feb 2005|10:23am]

[ mood | awake ]

All was still in the lounge; any residents and their supervisors unfortunate enough to snag duty were the only bodies around at this ungodly hour, anyway. Except for House.

But no surprise there, right? The infectiologist was generally wherever he wanted to be.

The scruffy figure draped over the brown armchair facing the silent television stirred slightly, his left foot twitching and his heel tilting into the carpet as his knee extended. He winced, reaching to deliver the stiff joint a reprimanding slap before tenderly tugging its lifeless counterpart back across the armrest. Then he sat up, groaning mightily.

Greg House was in fine form this morning -- his cheek lay flat against the chair back with a couple days growth of silvery stubble, his blue shirt open (well... one button was done) and hopelessly molded to the corresponding creases in the chair’s worn leather, revealing an equally mussed gray t-shirt beneath. His sleek black walking cane sat tangled and forgotten with his jacket at his feet.

House dug the heel of his hand roughly into one eye, blinking the other against the hall lights intruding through the open door. The atmosphere was saturated by their monotonous hum, and the dull familiarity of the whole situation instantly began to bore him.

And damn, his leg hurt. Surprise, surprise.

“Lovely wakeup call,” he growled. Well, wasn’t it? Gotta love the pain. Keeps me on my feet. Using the armrest as his lever, House swung himself upright, and he stumbled clumsily toward the refrigerator. Opened it.

Nothin’ interesting… unless the stench counted. Spotting a half-empty can of Mt. Dew(which was probably his anyway), he snatched it up and leaned into the door as it closed. Staring into the dark carpet, the doctor paused before tilting his head back to down the can, which he then abandoned unceremoniously on the fridgetop while he turned to stagger back to his chair.

Vicodin… Vicodin… wheeeere’s the goddamn Vicodin? He shifted and pushed his hands into his jean pockets, trolling for the lovely little orange cylinder. All they turned up with was an unwrapped peppermint. He stared for a moment, as though very seriously considering how the thing got there, before popping it into his mouth.

[Closed until House is in the mood to interact with other player characters]

1 Room straightened| Grab a wipe

Application Form [14 Feb 2005|03:02pm]

[ mood | devious ]

ApplicationCollapse )

Please include this information in an e-mail addressed to DrMink@Hotmail.com. You may reach me via AIM (Shaky Sleuth) as well.

Grab a wipe

Role Call [14 Feb 2005|09:08am]

[ mood | chipper ]

Below, you'll find the list of both available and occupied roles for MotM. Although I try to keep it up-to-date, there may be some errors as far as who's taken. I apologize. PLEASE READ THE RULES(in MotM User Info) BEFORE APPLYING.

MotM RolesCollapse )

Applications are posted.

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