The yellow Dodge Challenger came to a stop just outside the iron fencing, over which straight, Gothic letters proclaimed 'Stillwater Cemetery'.

Leroy Jethro Gibbs sat in the driver's seat. He ran a hand over his weathered face, debating whether to go in or not. It had been years, what harm could a couple of more do? He took a deep breath and exited the car swiftly before he changed his mind. He slammed the door shut and walked over to the old, rusted gate. He laid his hand on it, pushing gently to open it. The memories came flooding back as soon as his foot crunched gravel, as he wound his way up the well-worn path of the graveyard, his footsteps echoing in his memories. He had been young then, just barely fourteen, but nearly as tall as his father, and he would yet outgrow him, so his mother liked to say. How he longed to hear her voice again.

He walked through the graveyard, barely glancing at the countless other headstones. No-one else knew how he was feeling right now. And if they did, he sure as hell didn't want to know. He could hear his father talking behind him, giving quiet orders as the cortege made its way up the slight incline. His mother was already there, waiting for him in the hearse. The ceremony sped past in a blur. He fell to his knees as he knelt over the hole, and he heard whispers for his safety, but he ignored them, kissing the coffin as it was lowered past him, into the ground.

As he rose to his feet, his father gripped his shoulder tightly. He couldn't believe it. That she, once so full of life, now was in the gaping pit that would be her eternal resting place. He felt his father gently nudge him forward as he threw a single pink carnation over her coffin.

The suit was too itchy and uncomfortable in the summer afternoon, not to mention too small. Hell, it wasn't even his. It was some rental suit his uncle had brought with him from Pittsburgh in a rush when he had heard 'The Terrible News'. That's what everyone was calling 'it', 'The Terrible News'. It sounded like a bad newspaper headline. He wiped the silent tears angrily away. This was all so stupid. She didn't deserve to leave. He had wanted her to stay so bad. It wasn't fair.

That was his first true brush with the Angel of Death, but, looking now at the ceramic picture of his mother on the well-kept gravestone, little had he known, back then, that it would not be his last.

He had hated seeing her in those last couple of weeks, even though he didn't know back then that she would be leaving him so soon. If he had, he would have stayed home with her. He hated thinking about it, even now, about how frail and small she had looked. With her tiny hands, which had once been strong enough to hold him high up to reach things from the pantry, now looked barely able to hold a baby bird. Her face was as white as dirty snow, and it broke his heart even more to see her eyes, which were a bewitching turquoise, clouded with pain. Sometimes he thought she didn't even realise he was there.

But what he had loved most was her hair. He had loved, when he was upset, how she allowed him to brush it gently, fascinated by how the light fell on it, be it in the summer sunshine or in the soft glow of an evening candle burning near. It was so soft, and it hung straight and long, just past her shoulders. She wasn't like other mothers.

Now, his memories of her flowing mane were tainted with flickers of what she had become. Her hair was brittle like straw, and he had seen long strands on her pillow. He had become afraid to touch her like a normal person, so afraid that if he hugged her too tight, she would shatter like a china doll and be scattered in a thousand pieces on the floor.

He was so sick of being afraid, just so sick of missing her already. He felt only fear and loneliness, the rest was numb. He wanted to feel something else. He wanted her back and he wanted to hug her and brush her hair, not to be fearful of crushing her.

He would never get the chance to do that again.

It was a different kind of grief from that of losing Shannon and Kelly, because even though he knew she was sick, he didn't think she would leave him so quickly. Because that is what she had done, left him all alone. Shannon and Kelly had been mercilessly ripped from him, so it was different. It was the same, but oh so different. They were all gone.

He turned away from the grave and walked quietly back to the car, where he sat in silence. The team would be looking for him, he reckoned, so he'd better start heading back. Just as he reached for the car keys, they slipped from his grip, where they fell under the seat he was in.

Frowning, he bent forward awkwardly to retrieve them, his hand brushing the under seat tray as he patted around blindly for them. He stopped, yanking out the tray as he sat back up. He smirked, brushing aside the old dust rug to reveal a plaque that had rarely seen the light of day since the day it had been carved. He couldn't believe the old man had kept it all this time. He re-covered it, his eyes flicking over the message he had already memorised years ago. He had cut and scratched his hands until his chisel work was perfect, determined to do a good job that he would be proud of.

To Mom & Dad,

Happy Anniversary,

From Leroy.