They made it back to Monk's apartment that evening. Ambrose approached Sherlock. "You know, all the anesthesia may have made me a little loopy, and I might be hearing things. Are you really Sherlock Holmes?"

He nodded. "That is my name."

"Dad used to read those stories to us. He did voices and everything. 'Brilliant, Holmes, brilliant!'"

"Yes, your brother told me."

"Well, I wish I knew. I would've felt better about you taking me out of the house."

"I think you would be much like my brother, Ambrose, if you got out a bit more."

Monk joined them. "Adrian," Ambrose said, "you have a very nice place. I'm glad I had the chance to stay here."

"I was glad to have you, Ambrose. You're welcome to come by anytime."

Ambrose looked at Natalie. "I wanna go home."

"Alright, I'll drop you off on the way," she answered.

"We should leave while it's dark," Sherlock said to John. "I drive better in the dark, or at least I do here. If we leave at night here, we'll arrive early in the morning in London."

"Well, before you go, there's one other thing you could help me with," Monk said. "Sorta a cold case I've been thinking about for a while."

"Very well, I think I could manage some time. What is it?"

Monk went to the bookcase and pulled the box that contained the smart phone Molly got for him. "How do you turn this thing on?"

"You got to put in the battery, obviously."

"Sherlock," John gently scolded.

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a breath. "Here, let me show you." They sat at the table, and Sherlock helped him take the phone out and put in the battery. "Now, it needs to charge overnight."

"Overnight? So I don't get to play with it until morning?"

"Relax. I'll show you the basics on my mobile."

Watching them discuss this made John smile. It made Natalie happy too. But then Ambrose impatiently said, "Natalie!"

"I'll pack us up," John said. "Natalie will drop me off in the airport. I'll meet you at the gate. Just take your time." He shook Monk's hand. "It was nice seeing you again, Mr. Monk."

"You as well, doctor," he replied.

"Any chance you could just call me John?"

"Why? I grateful for your title."

"Sherlock," Natalie said, "I don't know what you said to Mr. Monk, but it worked a miracle. I could not be more grateful." She kissed his cheek. "Thank you."

"No trouble," he mumbled. He reached into his coat and pulled out a pair of sunglasses. "Your fiancé will be looking for these. I don't like how they tinge the world, but they fulfilled their purpose."

"Well, I'm glad to be part of the process."

Once she and John walked out of the door, Sherlock asked, "Do you have a spare wipe?"

"Do you ask Picasso if he has a spare paintbrush?" Monk asked as he got a wipe out of his pocket. They both laughed.

They spent about two hours discussing how to use a phone. Sherlock showed him how to make a call, how to save contacts, how to text, how to use Skype, how to use GPS, how to connect to the Internet, even how to find a radar in case a body or evidence was wet from rain but everything else was dry. It was a bit overwhelming, but in the end, Monk was starting to wonder why everyone wasn't a detective. After he got it all figured out, they just started talking.

"I have to say, I was impressed with how you handled yourself with Moriarty," Sherlock told him. "It was better than I expected from you."

"I can really face down some criminals. I didn't really get a chance with him last time, though I tried."

"You even used this to your advantage." Sherlock picked up The Complete Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. "That was quite brilliant."

"Well, one thing I've learned in my life is if you have a curse, that doesn't mean you can't make it work for you."

"Yes, I like that. One thing, though, from what I read of this, it's not me. It's uncannily similar, yes, so much so that I wonder if should start looking for a certain Doctor, but it's just too different."

"What do mean 'doctor'? You need a therapist? Because Dr. Bell is pretty good."

"That's a British science-fiction reference. Don't worry about it."

"OK. Well, it is pretty uncanny." He looked at him. "Sherlock, did we really have that conversation in the hospital, about my mind?"

"Yes, we did."

"How?"

"I was just talking. I could tell from the feedback of the machines that you were responding. So I just imagined how that conversation would go if we were talking to each other. As similar as our minds are, I think I made a good estimate."

"You said things I didn't think I told you."

"I found some details in Miss Teeger's house. Maybe you blocked out some of the memory of us in Moriarty's trap."

"It's possible. You really think we're so alike? 'Cause, really, beyond our profession, I don't see it."

"What don't you see?"

"Well, there's a big age difference, a big culture difference, we solve cases completely differently, and you like spiders."

"I do, but I don't likes wasps."

"My mother used to say, 'If you don't bother them, they won't bother y—"

"RUBBISH! I once got into a wasp's path, and I stood perfectly still, didn't move a muscle, didn't even bat an eye. I still got stung. Wasps don't guard their stings as jealously as bees because they don't die once they sting. I once developed an experiment to test what's the acceptable radius where a wasp is 'not bothered,' but I couldn't bring myself to test it, and Mother wouldn't let me use Mycroft to test it, even when I offered to pay him. Now, spiders catch wasps. They're Nature's pest control. You should learn to get along with them."

"Alright. Well, it is kinda reassuring that you have a couple of phobias, wasps and heights, but you're not bombarded by them. And you don't have all the obsessions and compulsions and social deficits."

"Do you think just because I don't have them now means that I never had them?" He leaned over. "I'll tell you a secret. When I was very little, about five years old, I had a very strong phobia that affected my performance in school, a phobia so rare that it didn't have a name—filmstrips."

"Filmstrips?"

"You know, educational filmstrips with the still pictures and the tape with the soundtrack and the tones. Thinking back on it, I think my problem was actually with the tape. It bothered me that there were noises that seemed to be coming out of nowhere, a tone I couldn't anticipate, and a lot of times there'd be a female speaker throughout the tape, and then at the end of the tape it was a male speaker. I couldn't predict that either. So when the teacher put on a filmstrip, I used to throw a tantrum, and I wasn't able at that point to really verbalize what the problem was."

"Well, that's something that's not in the book. How'd you get over it?"

"Mostly, it was taken care of by progress. Filmstrips turned into videotapes, which turned into laser disks, which turned into DVDs, and of course any of that information can be found on the Internet."

"Were you OK in that projection room?"

"Oh, I was fine with projectors. I even liked watching them work more than watching the film. But I had similar fears. I've had problems with loud noises certain textures. And I've done things when I'm bored, when I'm impatient, sometimes for no reason at all to make me feel better. John calls them 'stims,' but I don't really know what that means. As for social deficits, it's not that I don't have them, it's that I don't care. I'm sure John could tell you that I do have them."

"So you never make conversation cards just to talk to people?"

"No, because I don't make conversation unless absolutely necessary. It's mind-numbingly dull, just chatting!"

"You wanna have conversations with me."

"Yes, but it's not just to chat, is it? Don't worry, you'll always have something to say."

"Do you ever worry about not being . . . normal?"

"Never! And I didn't think you did either. Besides that brilliant mind, that's what I like the best about you."

"Thank you."

Sherlock checked his watch. "Well, I better be off. I'll probably text you when I get to London. In fact, expect me to text or Skype you daily from now on."

"Are you coming to Natalie's wedding?"

"John probably will, but not me. I don't like weddings."

"Me neither, but she's making me come. She wants me to learn the piece she and Steven will have their first dance with on my clarinet, the theme from Up?"

Sherlock snapped his fingers. "Oh, that's something we never got to do. What's the American word for it, 'jam'? Maybe some other time."

"You know, the last couple of weddings I went to had murders. In fact, the last one had an explosion."

"Sounds like fun. Enjoy it." He started heading for the door.

"So, this is it, then? We call, we text, we video conference, but we're not gonna see each other in person anymore?"

"I wouldn't say that! I wouldn't say that at all. I have other enemies. I'm rather sure you do too. Though I hope you come to London next time. America is just too . . . bright and touchy."

"Well, just in case." Monk extended his hand. "Even if you are fictional, even if you really were a delusion, I'm glad to have met you."

Sherlock took his hand and shook it heartily. "Likewise." They both even smiled a little. When Monk let go, he didn't go looking for a wipe. "Have a good night, Mr. Monk." He started to leave again

"Sherlock," Mr. Monk called back. Sherlock turned around. "If you ever do see Monsieur Dupin again, give him my regards."

Sherlock looked down. "Yeah, I should've told you. Just after we met, a couple months later, he . . . died. Natural causes. Heart attack. Parisian diet without the wine. And he smoked, encouraged me to quit."

"Really? That's a shame, I mean about Dupin, not about your quitting, which is impressive. Conan Doyle's Sherlock didn't quit pipe-smoking or cocaine."

"Yes. Well, like his literary counterpart, Dupin's illustrious career was cut short too soon. He left a void, a void I try to fill." He shook his head. "It wouldn't be right for me to leave you on such an unhappy note. You get your clarinet, I'll get my violin, we'll find something to play."

"Just when was that, when he passed away?"

"2001, yes, just before 9/11."

"Yeah, I was wondering, because I once called Paris when I read an international news story about a crime there that had the police baffled. I helped them solve it. If Auguste Dupin was really there, they wouldn't have a problem. But I think that was 2002, maybe 2003."

"Yes, just after he passed. Now, go get your clarinet."

Once Monk was gone, Sherlock turned around, got out his phone, pulled up his blog, scrolled down to Dupin's comment, and pushed delete. A message popped up, "Are you sure you want to delete your comment?" He pushed yes, and the message disappeared. He sighed, put his phone away, and went to the car to get his violin.