A/N: ATTENTION: READ THIS NOTE FIRST -

My NCIS OC, Elizabeth, has never actually appeared in any of my previous stories, but I really wanted to publish this one, so allow me to share about her:

Elizabeth Anne Beckley was born on February 7th, 2000. When she was 9, her mother, Lieutenant Commander Angela Beckley, was killed in a terrorist bombing of the naval base at Quantico, Virginia. In the investigation following this tragedy, Elizabeth met the NCIS team and ended up as a very capable agent working with Team Gibbs. I know you might be thinking of her as a Mary Sue, and she probably is, but I assure you that she is quite likable and has her flaws. At the time of this story she is living with her college-age sister, Kyla Beckley, in a renovated townhouse in Georgetown. Thank you for reading past this point, and if you actually are, please enjoy! -SWS

Prologue

Washington D.C., USA

October, 2012

~Elizabeth~

It was what I would usually consider an unfortunately normal Thursday evening. But with the recent wrap-up of the U.S.S. Constitution Reenactment Fiasco, I felt surprisingly OK with the calmness of the day. I'd made it home from work by dinnertime, and was curled comfortably on the couch in my sister's old pajama pants with a plate of sweet potato fries and a file of my old attempts at stories. As I rifled through stapled together paragraphs of miniscule scrawling and terrible grammar, I stuck another fry into my mouth and wiped my fingers on the frayed old dishrag that was draped over the arm of the couch.

I was squinting through a particularly descriptive sequence about an abandoned farmhouse in the moors of England when I heard the sound of the hall door opening. I thought maybe Kyla or her date had forgotten their phone until I heard the sound of a coat hitting the rack so hard it shook, and banged up against the wall, followed by a too-familiar voice. "You down here, Liz?"

I sighed. "Tony DiNozzo, it's a door. And isn't knocking on wood supposed to be good luck or something?"

Quicker than was his usually relaxed manner, Tony strode over to the couch where I was sitting. I moved the fries to the side table, but he remained standing. "Have you seen the news this evening?"

Truthfully, I hadn't, wanting a bit of a break from hearing about the stressful state of our nation. "No, I haven't. Why?"

But Tony had already picked up the remote, and was flipping through the news section at lightning speed. They all showed the same scene, which appeared to be dozens of news vans and swarms of reporters in front of 3100 Massachusetts Ave. Northwest – the British Embassy, but Tony only settled on ZNN.

A slim, blond reporter stood on the lawn across the street, turned with her back to the commotion outside the Embassy. "Again, the Alliance meeting between the United States and Great Britain taking place this week has gone decidedly south. Reports from survivors say that the windows on the top floor were opened, the air being unusually warm today. They were closed as evening came and the temperature began to drop. Not long after, a poisonous gas was filtered through the ventilation system. Three MI6 agents were killed, as were two FBI agents, three English diplomats, and one American politician. A United States naval officer by the name of Liam Jarvis is still missing."

I cocked an eyebrow. "Still missing? It's not like an earthquake or anything. Who goes missing during a gas filtration?"

Tony exhaled slowly. "That's not the worst part. Recognize the name?"

My jaw dropped and my eyes went wide. "Not Clayton Jarvis?"

That would be referring to Secretary of the Navy Clayton Jarvis.

"Yeah."

"Why do our SecNavs always have trouble with their relatives?"

I was, of course, referring to the fact that our previous Secretary had been the uncle of an agent, which had nearly led to the agent's death during an international killing case.

Tony didn't answer my question, which I had to admit had sounded pretty rhetorical.

I cleared my throat. "Are we getting called in?"

"No." His voice was flat, his face unreadable. "Not until it's either been more than 48 hours or they find his body."

In a gesture of bewilderment I outstretched my arm towards the television. "But this makes him a high-profile target!" I protested.

Tony shrugged half-heartedly. "SecNav's orders, not mine."

"What relation is Liam to Clayton?"

"Son."

"Why on earth does SecNav not want us to immediately begin searching for his son?"

I saw Tony's adam's apple bob as he swallowed hard. "Because his son's a criminal."

London, England

October, 2012

"MRS HUDSON!"

"Good God, Sherlock, keep it down!" called a voice from the sitting room. "She's visiting her sister, as I'm sure you've observed by now."

"Of course the woman would neglect to be present when she is most needed."

John closed his eyes and bit his tongue, refraining from telling Sherlock that The Woman was dead, and that Mrs. Hudson was far from achieving the status of The Woman. "Why do you need her, anyway?"

"I would like some tea, however I am forbidden from entering the kitchen."

"That's never stopped you before," John muttered, snapping his laptop shut.

"What did you say?" called Sherlock, still standing halfway down the stairs.

"I SAID, I AM NOT GOING TO MAKE YOU TEA," John bellowed, pulling himself out of the kitchen chair with a grimace.

A moment later, as John was heading toward the refrigerator (and half expecting to lose his appetite at the sight of whatever body part Sherlock was storing there this week), something on the table made a vibrating noise.

"Sherlock, you have a text!"

But the great deductive specialist made no move to ascend the stairs in his fluid, catlike manner. Instead, he bellowed, "WELL, LOOK AT IT!"

John sighed, holding back a stream of curses only a military man or a sailor would be prone to, and walked back to the table to pick up Sherlock's phone.

"If it's Lestrade, tell him that I refuse to help him, as Anderson should be able enough to solve this petty jewel robbery."

"No, it's Mycroft. He says there is a matter of some importance, and would it be convenient were he to stop over in about 10 minutes."

Feet that could only belong to Sherlock bounded up the steps, and once in the sitting room, he snatched his phone out of John's hand. "Surely you are mistaken. The train cannot have jumped its' rails."

But as he read the text, he appeared startled, and he cocked his head full of curly black hair. "My congratulations, John, it appears you do know how to read."

"Thank you for that, Sherlock," said John dryly. "The praise is much appreciated."

Instead of answering, Sherlock opened the fridge with a flourish. He sighed exasperatedly. "John, what have you done with my kidneys?" he asked.

John let his head fall into the wall with a muffled thud. "I never touched them, Sherlock," he said with gritted teeth. "I haven't even opened the fridge today."

The refrigerator door slammed closed and footsteps now as light as a cat's entered the detective's bedroom. "And why is the Skull on my pillow?" he bellowed.

"I. Don't. Know."

The next moment John was relieved to see a nondescript black car brake smoothly in front of Baker St. and Mycroft emerging from it, the beautiful Anthea, tapping away on her phone as always, by his side.

A few minutes later, Mycroft was seated comfortably while John held his laptop ready and Anthea leaned casually against the door frame, nimbly scrolling through news stories on her phone, lips pursed elegantly. Sherlock paced the length of the room, twirling the Skull with his long fingers as if it were a basketball.

"I trust you remember that the Alliance meeting was this week?" Mycroft asked, after a moment of snapping off loose threads from the couch.

"Naturally, it's all over the news," said the younger Holmes, spreading his arms to demonstrate.

"There was an incident of a decidedly...criminal nature yesterday. I trust you heard about it?"

"Ah, the gas filtration," said the sociopath far too flippantly. "Six deaths on our side of the matter alone. One American still missing. Queer affair, but too political. Quite uninteresting."

"Sherlock," remonstrated John, but Mycroft ignored the bribe.

"The President himself has requested our help in the situation. You have two airplane tickets booked on a flight to D.C. leaving in two hours."

"Two hours!" Spluttered John. "Mycroft, surely we couldn't have had more of a warning –"

Mycroft's eyes rested on the soldier's face. "Two hours. The matter is of urgent importance." The eyes of the government official drifted to Sherlock. "And it very well could be a matter of national security."

A/N: Sorry if it wasn't that great. I find it harder to write in a more modern verse than I use in my Canon!Sherlock Holmes stories. Also sorry if it's short, not all of my stories will be as verbose as others. Also this hasn't really been edited, so just ignore any errors. I myself think the story isn't very attention sucking so far, but please, please leave whatever compliments you have for me in a review, and please follow and favorite, since updates will probably be sporadic so as to comply with the cooperation of my Muse. As previously stated, please review! -SWS