Once again, sorry for the wait! But, it was a shorter than the last wait? So it's a little better? Anyway, I just want to, as usual, thank everyone for their comments and support, I really appreciate it! A lot of people have brought up questions and/or little things that are off and I would like to apologize for them. In case you couldn't tell, I'm American, and there are probably plenty of British things that I am completely butchering in my ignorance. That was not the intention. Also, I'm not in any type of Law Enforcement, and I occasionally lack common sense, so I apologize for any discrepancies on that front. But, even if you want to point out stupid mistakes I'm making go ahead! I enjoy any feedback! But anyway! Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to either Sherlock or NCIS. If only.


DiNozzo shifted restlessly in his seat, anxious to do something, anything. That was the problem with this case, there was no suspect, no suspicious person to question, and everything was a very clean in and out job. It was the type of case that Tony hated. Any items used in the killings were simple enough to come by, and were never bulk ordered. There was no apparent link between any of the murder victims, no common factor. Tony leaned back in the chair provided to him, bouncing a paper ball off the wall.

Perhaps worst of all was the fact that NCIS didn't really have claim to this case. No matter what boss may have told that Sherlock Holmes character, they didn't have any real influence on foreign soil. They were guests, guests who happened to have an interest in a murder.

Tony swiveled his seat as the back of his neck began to prickle. As expected, his boss stood mere feet behind him.

"Anything, Boss?"

"No."

Tony sighed.

"What about McGee and Ziva? Did Holmes find anything? What was up with that anyway? The man swooped in, looked at our files for a second, and disappeared. What was the point?"

Gibbs eyed Tony.

"He didn't really need those files DiNozzo. Learn to recognize a power play. That man could probably hack into any data base he wanted for our files without breaking a sweat. He wanted to scope us out. That's why he's keeping an eye on Ziva and McGee; he's seeing whether or not we can be useful to him."

Heaving an irritated sigh, Tony hated the fact that they may or not measure up to the posh British man's standards. Tony admitted to himself that it had been quite odd that the man had shown up at all, seeing as he had given the files less than a moment's notice. Most of his attention, in fact, had been focused on the other people in the room. And then…

"What's with the man with him boss? He doesn't seem the type to tag along to crime scenes. Something about him too, just seems… off."

Gibbs' brow furrowed in understanding, and he nodded.

"Dr. John Watson. I think that, out of the two of them, it's Watson that we should keep an eye on. Not Holmes."

Tony couldn't help but agree.


It had been hours, and still, McGee and Ziva had done nothing but sit there. Sherlock sank into silence immediately after the tea arrived, leaving John, McGee, and Ziva all alone, though he was technically still there.

"He gets like this. Says he's in his Mind Palace, and not to be disturbed. Only thing to do is hunker down and wait." Dr. Watson had explained, before scooping up a newspaper and settling further back into the couch. With nothing else to do, Ziva and McGee had simply sat there; loathing breaking the comfortable silence around the two men.

It seemed like hours, but in reality was only perhaps one, when McGee and Ziva were saved from eternal awkwardness by steps on the stairs. Something was off about them, however, they were much too light, and… bare-foot?

Sherlock straightened up immediately, frowning. There was a soft knock at the door, and a soft voice was calling through the wood.

"Mister Holmes, sir? The network's gotta report." Ziva and McGee started in surprise, if they weren't mistaken, that was the voice of a child! Sherlock and John however did not seem surprised. If anything, the former was frowning, and perhaps a bit interested, while the latter seemed concerned, especially after a quick coughing fit sounded on the other side of the door.

"Wiggins, come in." John said, eyes fixed on the door. McGee couldn't stop his jaw dropping slightly in surprise when it was indeed a child who appeared in the doorway.

She was perhaps older than a child, eleven or twelve at best, and she was short. Chopped hair hung around her face, dirty enough that its color was indistinguishable. Wearing nothing but rags, and missing even shoes, the girl still managed to enforce her presence.

Once she caught sight of John, she stepped further into the room.

"Doc," She said with a grin. "I really gotta thank you for that help with my ankle. I can walk good as new now."

The doctor couldn't seem to snuff out his small grin, but he did manage to convey disapproval through his eyes.

"I do believe that the payment for my services was that you would wear the shoes I gave you? No matter who else needed them?"

"Aw Doc! The littl'uns needed 'em more. Little Mary couldn't even feel her toes!" Wiggins protested, eyes sparkling halfway between guilt and amusement.

"And what good will you be to all of them if you come down with pneumonia? Don't think I couldn't hear you coughing. You're taking a paracetamol."

"You sure Doc? Mister Holmes looks like he's 'bout to blow a gasket at our natterin'" Indeed, what Wiggins said was true, as Sherlock had a slightly constipated look on his face. John, to McGee and Ziva's amusement, simply shook his head at Sherlock fondly.

"Too bad. You're not to tell him a thing until you've taken some medicine." Wiggins and Sherlock rolled their eyes in sync as John's back turned. They shared an exasperated look, apparently neither appreciated scoldings.

Wiggins seemed to notice Ziva and McGee for the first time, and gave a little jump.

"Who are they? They aren't no coppers are they, Mister Holmes?" The girl's gaze was suspicious and she subtly took a few steps closer to the door.

"I wouldn't think about it Wiggins. John will have my head if I let you leave without some medicine. Look at them and tell me what you see." At Sherlock's orders, Wiggins gave them a once over.

"Americans. Agents, right?" Wiggins offered. Sherlock grinned.

"Very good."

Ziva and McGee weren't blown away by the deduction, but by the fact that the two men were so obviously comfortable with a homeless child. Neither had seemed the child type.

John reentered the room, holding a glass of water and a pill. He passed both to Wiggins and made sure she swallowed both before settling back down on the couch.

"Go ahead. Give him the report."

"Okay, first off, Mister Holmes, you might want to know that there's a new gang on the rise. They've not been doing nothing too bad yet, just smashing some cars and stuff. They're callin' themselves the Butcherin' Barracudas. Going by that name though, they're not gunna be around for long." Sherlock nodded, taking in the information, apparently storing it for later use.

"Secondly, I got some news for you. Old Margaret, you know, the one Doc helped out awhile back, saw your body drop. She said she was sittin' for a rest and the guy just appeared in the alley and dropped the body. She thinks he musta alley-hopped or somethin'. He saw her though, and said he'd kill her if she talked. But Maggie don't like being in anyone's debt. So she said that now she and the Doc are even."

Ziva and McGee sat dumbfounded at this rush of information. Out of the corner of her eye, Ziva saw that John had slipped out a notebook to jot notes, and Ziva was glad at least one of them had the presence of mind to take notes. It seemed that their killer had finally slipped up. Sherlock was sitting straight-backed on the couch, eyes alight with interest. He gestured to Wiggins.

"What else did she see? Give me everything."

"She said she looked ova and saw the guy wheelin' a box up the alley. And that it sorta collapsed outwards and he laid the body down. She said that he scattered him all ova the alley and that she was almost sick. Then he walked ova to her, and said real low like, so she couldn't getta read on his voice: 'Tell anyone what you saw and you'll be the next victim.' And then he strolled away just like that. He was wearin' gloves she said, and he made sure to scuff up his tracks as he walked away. He folded the box right up and just disappeared the way he came."

"Did she get a good look at him? See his face? How tall was he? How much did he weigh?" John asked these questions, as Sherlock stared off into the distance clearly thinking. Pen pressed between his teeth, and notebook perched on his leg, John looked the role of a perfect assistant. McGee would bet his next book's rights that Sherlock never even looked at his painstaking notes.

"She said it was dark Doc, and that she couldn't see much of anything. But his eyes, she said were darker colored and he had light hair. He was tall too, he came like up to here," Wiggins lifted her hand to about Sherlock's height. "And he weighed like 14 or 15 stone. Maggie used to be a tailor ya know, she's real good at tellin' these things. He wasn't pudgy neither, she said, he was real in shape like. That's all she got."

McGee couldn't help his little smile. This was it! This could be their break in the case. Perhaps this Sherlock Holmes character wasn't so bad at all.

"It's imperative that I speak with her Wiggins, I need to ask her some questions."

"Uh uh. No way Mister Holmes sir. She said no way was she gunna be seen with you, that you'd go and get her killed. She don't want to see the Doc either, cuz everyone knows he's just your lackey." John looked indignant at being called Sherlock's lackey, and Sherlock looked indignant at being denied anything. It couldn't have happened very often. Both of them opened their mouths to argue at the same time, when a phone began to ring. It was… an orchestra?

"John, phone." Sherlock ordered. John rolled his eyes and walked over to his coat. He removed two phones from his pocket and glanced at them, before tossing the ringing one to Sherlock.

"It's Lestrade."

Sherlock nodded, pressing it to his ear with an intent expression on his face. John noticed McGee and Ziva staring at him. He shrugged. "What? It saves time."

Sherlock ended the call, brow wrinkled.

"You're free to go Wiggins. Keep me updated of any further developments." When the girl had gone, Sherlock turned towards them with a grave expression.

"We may have a problem. Lestrade's found another body."

"But it hasn't been-"

Sherlock grimaced, but his eyes told a different story, they were alive with excitement.

"It seems the killer has upped his ante. We've got a new crime scene to go to, come on." The man clambered to his feet sweeping out the door. John, followed by McGee and Ziva, purposely grabbed his keys and coat, and followed.


Once more, the crime tape led to an alley. Lestrade massaged temple, feeling a headache coming on. This case was… Well, let's just say he couldn't blame the Americans for being stumped. Already two bodies, and had been less than 48 hours. And the way the victims were killed? He had been on the force for almost 20 years, and he had never seen anything like it.

It was inevitable that Sherlock was brought in, Christ; this was the type of case that the man lived for! He seemed to be getting on with the Americans rather well, Lestrade supposed. None of them had killed him. Yet. Lestrade prayed to God that the genius would manage to solve this case rather quickly. If the press found out that an American case had migrated to London, and just how brutal the crimes were… The public would be in a panic.

Lestrade looked up from his post on the wall, eyeing the NCIS team leader and his Senior Agent as they snapped photo after photo. They still had no clue who this victim was, as, judging by her clothing, or lack of it, she was homeless. It didn't make the crime any less terrible. There had been a note, but it hadn't made any sense to any of the investigators at the scene. Lestrade hoped Sherlock would be able to give him more seeing, as the note contained his name.

Speak of the devil, Lestrade thought, as he heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps echoing down the alley. Turning the corner was the Consulting Detective himself, followed, as usual, by John. Surprisingly, the two NCIS agents also appeared no worse for wear. Lestrade decided to call this a win.

Sherlock's eyes slid over the body parts, taking in information, analyzing and deducing. When he reached the head, Lestrade watched with dismay as he frowned in recognition. John, a step behind, gave a slight gasp. Lestrade knew that it wasn't at the state of the body, not from a man who ran around with Sherlock Holmes.

"Bloody hell…" John whispered, rubbing at his eyes. Lestrade watched with concern. If these two had known the victim… It indicated that the killer was getting personal. Could this case get any worse? Lestrade looked to Sherlock the question clear in his eyes. Everyone gathered around the crime scene did the same.

"Her name is Margaret, she used to work as a tailor, but when the business failed, took to the streets. She has arthritis in her right wrist." He paused. Lestrade butted in when he had the chance.

"Look since you knew her, perhaps you know what this note means?" He took a step forward, as four perfectly in-sync voices asked,

"There was a note?" If not for the fact that there was a brutal murder victim on the ground, or that John and
Sherlock had a rule about giggling at crime scenes, it would have been funny.

"Yes, perhaps you can take a look?" Sherlock strode forward, coat billowing behind him. Pulling a pair of gloves from his pocket, he gently took the offered piece of paper. He sighed, holding it up over his shoulder after he had finished reading it.

I don't kiss and tell, Sherlock Holmes.

This was about to get messy.


I hope you enjoyed it! Thanks for reading and please review!