I sit beside Abby and hold her hand tightly. I focused on the building and the smoking remains of the car. I could smell seared human flesh…smell it once and it stays with you…you don't need a hyperthymestic memory to remember.

I couldn't stand it, I get up and pace angrily. I wanted to go in. I needed to find my team. My phone rings, startled that it still worked, and glad to see it was Jimmy. I tried answering it…it went dead, I guess my phone didn't work. Convenient. I shove it back into my pocket and prowled around. I hated waiting, I used to be able to wait for things to happen, but now I wanted to tear out my hair.

I suddenly see Gibbs…running between two gurneys. I saw McGee; eyes open in alarm, and my brother—eyes shut. I run up as questions tumbled out of my mouth, they race passed me as I followed.

In the ambulance I watched as they worked on my brother…he was stabilized, but he wasn't waking up. Why wasn't he waking up? I felt like I was in another fog of dust—figuratively speaking. I followed the paramedics as the ambulance stopped, but as soon as I made it inside, I was stopped by a nurse. She told me I needed to remain calm and wait.

I tried not to scream in frustration.

I sat in the uncomfortable hospital chairs. My phone went off a few times. I didn't bother to answer it. I think I deserved one moment to be selfish and antisocial. I checked a text from Abby and let out a shaky sigh of relief; she found Tony and Ziva: they were safe.

The hot cup of coffee the nurse brought me felt wonderful against my palms. I stared at the steam flowing out of the cup.

A voice told me. "Wasn't there a rule to 'stay in touch?'"

'"Never be unreachable.'" I corrected Sherlock, who was currently sitting beside me. I talked aloud; fortunately the other people in the waiting room were busy with making phone calls or ignoring me. "I can't talk to anyone right now, alright."

"That's why I text." He sniffed as he crouched in the chair impatiently. "God! This is boring."

"Sorry if my brother and best friend's injuries aren't exciting enough for you." I snipped.

"You're worried about them."

"What gave me away?" I asked darkly.

"Go back to your apartment and get some rest." He ordered me.

"Go to hell." I told him harshly—there was no way I was leaving Trent and Tim here.

He sighed in frustration. "Do you honestly think your presence would be able to magically heal them? Don't be an idiot."

"I'm not an idiot!" I hissed as I grasped the cup tightly.

"Then stop acting like one."

Before I could retort, someone else cleared their throat. I look up and see a doctor staring at me. "Are you Trent Garrio's sister?"

"And Tim McGee's friend." I stand. "Are they going to be okay?"

"Mr. McGee will be just fine." He told me.

I felt panic numbing my chest. "And my brother?"

He gently told me. "Your brother has stabilized, but he has not woken up yet. We are running some tests to be sure…"

"That he isn't comatose." I finished fearfully.

The doctor continued. "He should be fine, but I'm afraid neither him nor your friend can take any visitors…go home Miss, you should get some rest." He left me.

I turn to Sherlock who examined me. I take a drink of coffee and it scorched my tongue as reluctantly gulped it down. I finally walked out the hospital as I chugged down the searing liquid.

I drive through the city…like I was going through the motions. And I was. I finally park and sent a text to Abby that Tim was alright. Luckily, Gibbs texted me that he talked to my mom…and I ignored her fourth call with a 'I'm fine text.'. I walked a couple blocks to my apartment; East Main rarely had any descent parking spaces. I trudged passed laughing drunks and tired commuters. I stopped when I heard a shriek, and saw a woman hanging over the ledge of a building. I was able to relax when I saw her boyfriend holding onto her as she giggled, and pull her back over.

I finally see my loft and rushed toward it. I suddenly heard a familiar Bristol accent call me. "Angel!"

I turn around and a smile formed onto my face. I saw Owen Bleek jog toward me. He was a tall, lanky man who grew up in Bristol and London, but he came over to America with his parents. He was also my neighbor. I loved hanging out with him whenever I had the chance.

"It's because he reminds you of me." Sherlock whispered. "Though I find that really insulting."

"Hey," He grinned as he analyzed me; his face dropped. "What happened?"

I shoot a smug glance at Sherlock; Owen was great at reading me—just like Sherlock. The fact he was antisocial and scoffed at the idiocy of people also was a reminder. He took a liking to me though, and I really cared about him too…

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "For God sakes; I'm not an antisocial pseudo-intellect!"

I ignored him with difficulty.

Owen waited and ran a hand through his blonde hair. "Who did you lose?" He asked me gently.

Of course he knew about the bombing.

"He probably has no bloody idea! You're a federal agent, who is acting depressed—any idiot would have guessed that!" Sherlock complained like a jealous child.

I bit my lip. "My brother and friend are in the hospital." Why was that so hard to say?

He gazed at me as his eyes widened. "God, how are you holding up?"

"Uh…" I couldn't think of a response for everything I felt, and shrugged. "I'm just tired."

"Did you have dinner yet?"

Oh it was night…right. That's why it's so dark…what's wrong with me?

Sherlock scoffed. "Typical, he knows you're vulnerable and is using the overly-altruistic and sensitive routine."

"That's what people do!" I snipped at him.

Owen's brow furrowed. "Yes, but did you eat anything yet? You look like you're about to pass out."

Sherlock glared at him. "Yes, but he is trying to get with you! Notice the way he is leaning toward you as if to have a private conversation with you, despite the fact no one is around to even hear! Also, he's so focused on you that he does not realize his foot is on a bit of dog droppings."

I ignored Sherlock, but realize he was right…damn it. Maybe I wanted to move on though.

"Then why am I still here?" Sherlock whispered into my ear darkly.

I gulped down the lump in my throat to tell Owen. "Thanks…but I just want to go to bed."

"You sure you don't want any company?" He offered. "I wouldn't mind just hanging out."

"I bet you would." Sherlock snarled at him.

I cleared my throat. "Not tonight…"

He gave me a sad smile. "I understand…I'm just glad you're alright."

Sherlock rolled his eyes in disgust.

I smile at Owen. "'Night…maybe we can have lunch tomorrow."

"Sounds like a plan." He grinned as he went into his own apartment.

I finally get into my own apartment and listened to Sherlock whine. "He was desperate, I suggest you let him know of your true feelings so he can move on."

"Maybe I want to date him…he's nice."

"A polite synonym for dull." Sherlock scoffed.

I drop my purse onto a chair and crossed my arms. "You're envious and acting like a jealous spouse."

"No, I'm explaining to you the facts that are right in front of you."

I shook my head. "This is insane."

"A bit annoying, but your problem with 'Owen' is hardly—" Sherlock began, but I cut him off.

"No! This. Talking to you like you're still alive! You are dead. You are a hallucination of my demented mind. Why am I continuing to suck myself into this?! You're not really here!" I shouted at him madly.

Sherlock listened patiently. "We've been over this before."

"It needs to stop." I tug on my hair as I gazed at him. "Why are you still here?"

"Because you want me to be." He told me gently.

I felt my legs shake as I slid to knees and stared at the brown floor instead.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and broke me out of my emotions of despair. "This is the apartment you bought?"

"Loft, and I love it." I muttered as I got back up to my feet.

His eyes scrutinized the place. "Yes, well enough to drink yourself asleep."

I shove the box filled with a couple empty wine bottles back behind the futon. "It's the only depressant that would keep me asleep. My nightmares have been hell."

"It's simply a mental process of memories being delivered from the frontal cortex of your brain to—"

"The hippocampus. Yes, I know, but how do you think it works for someone with a vivid and cluttered memory system?" I went over to double check that my door was still locked. It made me uncomfortable—I was able to easily break into my own apartment—it took me ten minutes—I was using credit cards. Second time, when I used sunglasses, it took five (lock pics tend to be too incriminating, but a broken pair of sunglasses are easy to use and wear). The locks were old, but that didn't stop people from getting in. Now, I slept with a gun under my pillow instead of a knife…things have changed.

He continues. "Stop being paranoid."

I glare at him and sit beside him. "Can't let anyone just barge in here."

He rolled his eyes. "No one would dare to cross you Angelina."

I snort a grim laugh. "You're confusing me with Ziva."

"Apparently you haven't seen what you look like when you're high on adrenaline—it's quite frightening." He sarcastically adds.

I giggle at his stiff manner. "Thanks." I was actually feeling better—emotionally.

"It wasn't a compliment."

I smirk as I stood. "Yeah it was." I walk upstairs and he followed. I throw off my clothes and ignored the ghost. I pulled on an oversized t-shirt that belonged to Trent in his college days—his teen years so to speak. We both attended college after our…strenuous freshman year of high school. We were quite good at college life. We commuted and we were ahead of our classes. What's our secret? No clue.

I climbed into the bed and stared at the ceiling. "Sometimes I wonder…" I trail off—dark emotions returning.

Sherlock sighed. "What?"

"If our roles were reversed…would you be lying awake…wondering why that person jumped off a building…and why you feel so terrible about it…despite the fact you barely knew that person…" I whispered. "The worst part is…I don't know how I should feel…how long I should grieve…or if I should grieve at all…I just feel smaller…like the world is going to swallow me up. I feel so alert despite that I'm exhausted…I feel bad if I cry too much or too little…I feel guilty that I can't react like everyone else…'people grieve in different ways' they say…what the hell sort of explanation is that? Is that supposed to make me feel better? Is it some sort of excuse?"

Sherlock listened. "Why do you ask the questions I can't answer?"

"So you can solve them."

"That's what your therapist is for…"

"She isn't you though…" I told him before rolling over and falling asleep.

Author's notes:

Hey guys! Long time...uh, no see? Well, you are probably pissed that I haven't been updating.

I'm so sorry.

:(

I just had nooo inspiration for this and was distracted by other fic's.

But it's finally back. so yays!

Sad chapter. aw. So. Trent is in a coma. Poor Trent, I need to stop hurting my oc's.

Angel is sad and...hallucinating. But that's okay because she is imagining Sherlock! Yay!

It's her way to cope. Also this chapter was definitely inspired by trips to Richmond, visiting my awesome uncle and aunt. It actually took me and my mom thirty minutes and two credit cards to unlock the loft door. Why were we? My uncle locked himself out and I always jump at a chance to learn lock picking.

So, reviews!

ikatiecullen101: I'm happy you enjoyed Sherlock! I'm sorry for the late update! :D

Elf the Dragon Rider: I'm glad you're happy! Your review gave me the push I need to create another chappie. Thank you!

Alright. I don't own NCIS or BBC Sherlock. But I did...muhahahahahahahahahaha!

R & R please and thank you for your patience.