I stumble up the steps of the flat and threw myself on the door in exhaustion. I banged on the door as I anxiously looked around for the officer and his friend. I kept slamming my fist against the door until a kind-looking woman opened it. When she saw me her eyes widened in concern.

"Please," I panted. "Please help me."

The woman let me in and put a comforting arm around me as she locked the door. "Don't worry dearie, you're safe here."

"I-I need to speak to Sherlock—" A gunshot suddenly rung through the flat and I shrieked in alarm as I threw myself on the floor.

The woman fussed and helped me up. "Oh don't worry dear; that's Mr. Holmes. No need to—" Another gunshot went off and I flinched. "By the way my name is Mrs. Hudson dear."

I nod stupidly and let go of my gun that was still concealed in my purse.

Mrs. Hudson called. "Sherlock! There's a young lady here for you." There wasn't an answer until she said. "I believe she has a case—"

I heard someone race toward us and saw a tall, thin man bound down the stairs like a child. I froze in fright as he landed in front of me. He had cold blue-green eyes that seemed to look right through me as he analyzed me.

Sherlock stopped shooting when he heard 'case'. He rushed out of the room. He was at his wit's end; he didn't care if the case was idiotic or not. He needed something to save him from the deadly boredom. He saw Mrs. Hudson standing next to a small woman. At first glance people would mistake her age, but he could see she was in her early twenties. He smelt vanilla perfume and sweat and knew she had run here as quickly as possible. The dirt on her soles showed that she was desperate to go through lawns to get away; as well as the scrape on her knee: the bits of fine rock showed she tumbled onto a sidewalk and then kept running. She was on Oxford street. She was American; from what he heard in snippets of voice dialect…Southern, but eastern. West Virginia…no, no Virginia he could tell from the way she pronounced her vowels. She was a college student. The bags under her eyes said studious researcher, but her hands' read to be an artist and writer…he saw the British museum faculty card in her purse as well as a gun. He saw the purse was jumbled with other items, but focused on the rest of her. She was in decent shape, but thin…he could tell she hasn't been exercising as much as she did. She wasn't material like other girls he've seen; not that she needed cosmetics to define her large brown eyes. She had soft facial features and mannerisms, but they weren't sheltered: she was distrustful of him with her body language and had to have some experience if she was able to escape someone and come here: especially armed…ah she was concealing a knife in her boot as well…yes, she was experienced. Straight back and calloused finger tips: plays the violin. Shoulders structure shows corporal practice as well as eye for detail…military?

He was intimidating with his stare and towering height. I felt small and transparent in front of him. I noticed he had burn mark and punctures on his hands, he wore a blue robe so he wasn't expecting to go out, and had a gun in his hand. I paled as he said. "You're an American intern at the British Museum; a curator or artist? Nevermind, you're a curator. You are from Virginia."

I was about to ask how he knew, but remembered he was an expert reductionist. I nod and he looked down at my legs. "Mrs. Hudson; get our guest some wash rags and bandages. Who was chasing you?"

I realized my knee was skinned and bleeding down my leg and into my boots. I tried to get a tissue from my purse, but Holmes grabbed my hand and led me into the sitting room. He sits me down in a chair. "Don't worry about your leg; now tell me who was chasing you?"

I look into his eyes and told him everything; every single detail I remember. I watched as a smile touched his face; having so many details for him must have been like Christmas to him...especially with a case like this. Mrs. Hudson brought me a wash rag, which I cleaned my scrape up and bandaged it up. I saw Holmes pace around the room excitedly, while tugging at his dark brown locks. He finally sat down and placed his fingertips together. He remained silent as he thought and then asked. "What did the shoes look like?"

"Dark brown boots; the laces were the same color but frayed. The toe was rounded, but the bottoms look like they were brand new. Not a speck of dirt." I watch as he stared at the ceiling.

"Eye color?" He asked.

"I couldn't really see…they weren't brown. He was Caucasian, brown buzz cut and beard, and he was wearing latex gloves." I suddenly grabbed a small sketchbook from my purse and began to sketch him out. Holmes watched me curiously until I finished and held it out to him.

He motioned to me. "Bring it to me."

I got up and gave it to him. He examines the picture and rips out for himself. "The policeman?"

"The name tag read Smith…he had blue eyes and black hair. He also has a mole on his neck." I saw the two men clearly in my mind's eye.

Holmes watched me and ordered. "Get me my phone."

I start from my thoughts and ask. "Where is it?"

"My room; upstairs and to your right." He starts looking through my book and I gently take it from him and hold it to my chest.

He raises his eyebrows. I stuttered. "S-sorry, but my sketchbook is like my diary and…let me go get you your phone." I rush upstairs and into his room; wondering why I had to get his phone. I saw the phone on his nightstand and quickly grabbed it. I took a look around the room and saw a laptop on the desk as well as a dissected eyeball on a petri dish. There were stacks of papers everywhere and knew he was an experimenter...must've been why he had all those burn and puncture marks on his hands.

Sherlock went over to her purse as soon as she left. Hmph. Her phone was dead. He saw a few candy bar wrappers at the bottom of her bag…favorite food was dark chocolate. He saw she carried vanilla flavored chapstick…her purse was absolutely disorganized. She must be in a hurry and finds organization as a waste of time. Kindle…fantasy, mystery, and horror stories: enjoys adventure and creativity. Web history shows constant research of artifacts; he was right about her being a curator. Her wallet held American cash and U.K. notes. He saw a family picture: parents, but the father was obviously of no relation, but her expression toward him was open and loving. The young man next to her appeared to be an older brother…no, their body language was almost identical in the picture; they were fraternal twins. The younger boy and two little girls were half-siblings of the stepfather. He saw another picture with a man with grey hair with his arm around her, a goth-dressed woman hugging her, another woman of Jewish-Israeli descent, an older gentleman, and three other young men next to her. Co-workers/friends from the expressions and the setting of an office. The information on the computer screen behind them read NCIS…so she was a part of a Naval Criminal Investigation Service. That explained many things to him. He then saw a folded up piece of paper and opened it:

Try to write out some memories that continue to "replay" over and over inside your head and remember we will have another therapy session when you get back

~Dr. Cranston

Holmes folded the paper back up and sat back in his chair. Yes, this explains everything.

I go down the stairs and handed Holmes his phone. He looks at my nails. "You paint." He started going through the phone.

I stare at him numbly as he explained. "I see Prussian blue paint powder underneath your nails; watercolor paint is more powder-like when dry—"

I interrupted his deductions with my own question. "Do you think the Klu Klux Klan has anything to do with this?"

Sherlock froze and looked straight at me as I timidly continued. "That's what the initials are for…I see you're researching and…" I shut my mouth in embarrassment; wondering how stupid my theory sounded.

He went back to the phone and researched the Klu Klux Klan. Soon, a creepy smile appeared on his lips. "Yes…a decent observation—" He looks at me questionably as I remained silent. "You do have a name."

I hesitated. "Angelina Garrio."

He curtly nods and tells me. "Back in the 18th and 19th centuries the Klan would send fruit pips as a threat to those that upset their racial ideals…they were known to be behind the times with their beliefs and lack of technology use. Well, I guess they're not anymore seeing that they sent undetectable emails and graphics. I have a feeling the Shaws had a little misunderstanding with a couple Klan members…"

I space out as I remember the stories my grandparents would tell me of the horror stories of the KKK, the documentaries I saw in elementary school, and the Klan members that would hand out fliers. From the stories and 1960 footage; I was terrified of the KKK and the white costumes would haunt my nightmares as a child. Now, even though I believed their beliefs were wrong and unjust, I was glad that the majority of their activities weren't as violent compared to what they use to do…or so I thought.

"So, the police believe you've killed Johnny Shaw." Holmes was waiting for a response; unfortunately I was only able to give him an emotional one.

"Y-yes, I barely got away from them. I knew the officer was trouble when I saw him with the shooter and when he asked for the disk…Please, I don't have a lot of money, but when I get to the states I will pay you anything. Please help me; I'll do anything..." I wiped my tears away in embarrassment. Holmes grabs a tissue and gives it to me. "Thank you, sorry." I sniffed.

Holmes gave me a strange look for apologizing. "Well, you've just seen your friend's corpse and have been unjustly chased and framed, so it's…" Holmes paused to say the right word. "Understandable for you to be emotionally compromised."

I choked out a sob as he said corpse; I visualized Johnny's dead body. This was making the murder all too real for me to handle. Holmes frowned nervously. "Watson!" he called; flustered.

I see a man with blond hair and kind eyes rush in with cane. "What's wrong?"

Holmes points to me. "Fix it."

John Watson looks exasperated and peers at me. "What did you do to her?" he questioned irritably.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and walked out of the study. "Nothing; fix it."

"She's a person Sherlock; not a bloody machine…" Watson then gives me a sympathetic smile. "I'm sorry if he—"

"N-no," I tried to make my voice stop shaking. "He didn't do anything; I'm fine…"

Dr. Watson watches me and gives me his hand. I shake it as he told me. "My name's John Watson."

"Angelina Garrio." I give him a sad smile. He helps me up from the chair. "Thank you."

John looks over his shoulder. "Don't worry; whatever happened Sherlock is on the case. I haven't seen him this interested in anything for days."

"Yes, I've read your blogs; they're extremely well written."

"Thank you; I can't wait to start writing about this case. What exactly happened? If you don't mind me asking."

I tell him everything, but stop when I saw how drawn his face became. "Did I upset you?" I felt bad that I wasn't remembering myself.

He shook his head. "No, but what you described—I'm surprised you haven't broken down earlier."

I shrugged. "I just couldn't. If I did, I would have been captured. This isn't exactly new for me…" I darkly remember some of my NCIS adventures and my grandfather's death.

It was so clear to me that I seemed to have gone back nine years ago to when I was a teenage girl. I remember staying over at my grandfather's with Trent; getting ready for a family reunion and helping him restore his model trains. Grandpa was a marine and good friends with Jethro and his father as well as Mike Franks. He was tough, caring, and loved to create railroads for his model trains with us. I loved him so much... we were in the kitchen eating some bruchetta when there was a violent pounding on the door. My grandfather frowned and told us to go to the back of the house and wait. We listened to him and waited in the train room. We then heard yelling, but the room muffled the words too much to be deciphered. Growing scared I ran out of the room to the living room where I heard:

"—not my fault he decided to face me—" My Grandpa's voice gruffly snapped.

"Bull! You shot him in cold blood—" A thin, furious voice broke through.

"Don't make me shoot you boy: I don't miss…"

I froze when I saw Grandpa holding a rifle at a man holding a handgun. My grandpa gave me a look of fear as the man fired. I never thought I would scream so loudly in my life. The man then pointed the gun at me. He suddenly lurched back as blood sprayed out of his shoulder. My grandfather, despite that he was shot in the chest, was still able to shoot at the stranger until the man raced out of the house. I tried to keep my grandfather alive as Trent called for help…I failed. The last words he told me was:

"I wasn't the best man in the world…I never thought my ghosts would be able to haunt me…but they are and I'm paying the price. I love you Angel and Trent—Trent! Take care of them…her. Tell Christopher (coughs) tell your dad I love him-" That was when his eyes dimmed and a breath hissed away. I felt shattered as I cried and begged Grandpa to continue talking to me. Trent held onto me as he cried with me. Sirens and then policemen racing in. Uncle Jethro showed up and Trent raced up to him and hugged him. Gibbs held Trent tightly and patted his back. He then lets him go with the paramedics and kneels in front of me. "Angelina."

I was hyperventilating and sobbing all at once and managed to choke. "He's dead…he killed him because of me. He shot him because he was too busy worrying about me! J-jethro…I didn't mean to—" Gibbs was already holding me as I cried hysterically. "Please tell me he's okay…please…" Gibbs carried me outside and stayed with me until the rest of his team showed up. As Uncle Jethro left to go solve the case; Trent stood by me and didn't let go of my hand until our parents showed up-Gibbs, Abby, Ducky, Tony, and Kate discovered that the man was the son of someone our grandfather killed in his service. Louis Merdor was arrested and tried. I was there as a star witness. The entire time I told my story I couldn't look him in the eyes until he was escorted out after being found guilty. I didn't talk to him, I didn't try to strangle him, or interact with him. I simply looked straight into his watering green eyes as he passed and watched him leave the room. I didn't feel satisfaction…only relief and depression. I felt like I lost something inside of me that day…and I was still looking for it.

John agreed; waking me from my memories. "If you need anything just ask me or Mrs. Hudson, just don't expect her to be the housekeeper; she's the landlady." He smirked about this like it was joke of some sort.

"Okay, what about Holmes?" I inquire; trying not to let anymore tears run down my face.

Watson laughs. "He is helping; with the case. Just never expect anything more from him; he isn't the most empathetic or social man in world."

"So he keeps to rule #10," I mutter.

"What's that?" Watson asked curiously.

"Rules that my friends work by: Never get personally involved in a case."

"Yes, Holmes lives by that rule." Watson grins.

"That's one of the ones I have trouble with." I frown as I miss my NCIS family

"What's the other one?"

"#6: Never apologize…"

Author's note: All rights reserved to Sherlock and NCIS : I don't own their characters I am simply borrowing them. All rights reserved to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's story The Five Orange Pips, which is a story I adopted from Doyle's Sherlock Holmes mysteries. I only own Angelina and Trent Garrio.

Please let me know if Sherlock and Watson are in character and thanks for reading!