I wake up and stand up after a good rest. I smooth out the nightgown Mrs. Hudson let me borrow. It was old, but refined and I liked it. I changed into my old clothes and went downstairs. I see Holmes asleep on the couch; his blanket had fallen to the floor. I pick it up and place it back on him as I wandered into the kitchen. I went into the fridge and gasped as I saw a human hand. I rub my eyes and the hand was still there. I grab the eggs and sausage links and carefully shut the fridge. I wondered if I should be concerned that there was a human body part in the fridge, but I shrugged it off. I start cooking up the sausages and the sizzling woke up Holmes. He sat down at the table and peers at me curiously as I explained. "I wanted to thank you and John for letting me stay the night and helping…How do you like your eggs?"

"Poached," he told me as he opened the paper.

I started making his food as John walks in.

"Angelina?"

"Good morning. How do you like your eggs?"

John was still groggy. "Huh?"

"She's making us breakfast John." Holmes murmured to his sleepy friend. "Why so tired? It's not like you've slept on a couch."

John looks at Holmes with narrowed eyes as I gasp. "Oh, Mr. Holmes—"

"Sherlock," he interjected.

"What?"

"Call me Sherlock," he told me as he went back to his paper.

I tilt my head in confusion. "Um, Sherlock, I'm sorry for taking your bed, I'll take the couch tonight if I have to." I felt mortified as I realized he had to sleep on the couch…I thought he volunteered, but I could tell he didn't.

"No." both he and John said. They look at each other in surprise.

Sherlock turns to me. "There's no point in putting you on the couch now…just don't touch or clean up anything you find in my room, understand?"

I nod. "Thank you—"

"Don't thank me." He muttered in annoyance.

John cheerfully says. "I like my eggs Sunny-side up please."

We all ate in silence until Mrs. Hudson came in. She was sweet enough to check on me and insisted I keep the gown, and wondered if I would need to stay at her place.

"Thank you so much Mrs. Hudson, but I'm fine. Sherlock let me sleep in his bed."

Mrs. Hudson's expression was mortified. "What?" she turns on Holmes. "Sherlock Holmes! I thought you were a decent gentleman, how dare you impose yourself on this poor girl—"

I drop my fork onto my plate in shock as John bit his lip to keep from laughing.

"I slept on the couch Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock groaned.

Mrs. Hudson looked surprised as she smiled. "Oh, how kind of you Sherlock,"

I cover my face in embarrassment, but I swore I saw Sherlock smirking for a moment. I offer Mrs. Hudson some food, but she refused and thanked me. She then left, but not before telling Sherlock how proud she was of him for being a 'gentleman'. Sherlock rolled his eyes at this, but didn't say anything as he finished his breakfast.

Sherlock got up from the table without a word and grabbed some of the evidence he gathered and went to get dressed. I look at his plate and wondered if he liked breakfast. John seemed to have read my thoughts and said. "He really enjoyed breakfast; he usually doesn't eat. He must've really liked your food. I know I did."

I smile at John; he was so thoughtful. "Thank you John,"

John smiled back at me as he helped me clear the table. "Trust me, Sherlock has a hard time relating to people and doesn't realize when he insults them…he may be a genius, but he's clueless with people." He looks at me curiously. "It surprises how nice he's trying to be to you."

"Huh?" I almost drop a plate. "Why would he try to be nice to me?"

"Well, just how he acts around you is different—"

"It reminds me of how he treats you and Mrs. Hudson, but I think he's only being nice to me because he feels sorry for me." I wash the plates as John dries them. "I'm grateful for your kindness as well John; you're a good friend."

John raises his eyebrows in surprise. "You consider me as a friend?"

"Well, I hope so," I smile timidly as John grins:

"You're a remarkable girl Angelina—"

"You can call me Angel; that's what people like to call me." I told him.

"Alright, well I'm glad to have you with us Angel."

I tilt my head in confusion once again. "Why's that?"

John shrugs. "It's good to have a smiling face around here that isn't painted on the wall." He laughs to himself as I remember the spray paint smiley face on the wall and laughed with him. We stopped when Sherlock walks in and gives us a muddled look. He seemed bothered as he looked between us and dryly inquired. "Ready to go?"

"Where?" I ask.

"Bart's."

John frowns and looks at me. "Not to the morgue?"

"Of course," Sherlock buttons up his coat. "I need to examine the body as well as run some more tests on the evidence. Molly told me that the NCIS pathologist was finished with the body, so I'll be looking through the leftovers."

I bite my lip and grab my purse. John notices my expression. "You can stay—"

"No, she'll be coming with us—" Sherlock told him.

"She doesn't have to—" John argued.

"Yes she does, I'm not going to leave her here where she could be attacked. Bart's is quite safe." Sherlock gives me a questionable look; his good mood returning. "Don't worry, the faster we get there the faster we'll solve this."

I give them a smile and nod. "I'll be fine, besides…I want to say goodbye to Johnny."

Both men stare at me in concern again and I sigh. "What?"

"You won't have an emotional breakdown, will you?" Sherlock asks as he watches me warily.

"No promises, but I'll be okay, you don't need to worry. I'm feeling much better this morning." The two men still give me doubtful stares at my optimism. "If it makes you feel better I can cry now."

They both shook their heads quickly and escorted me out of the flat; this time I wore a hat and glasses along with one of Sherlock's trench coats as a disguise.

When we make it into the morgue we were greeted by a kind woman named Molly Hooper. She led us to the lockers and pulls out the body of Johnny. I see the sutures made after he was dissected and the identity tag on his toe. Holmes grabbed a pair of surgical scissors and started to cut the threads. He then proceeded to open Johnny up. I watched; feeling sick. Of all the human dissections I've witnessed; I'd never felt like this. I rushed out of the room quickly. I sit in the hallway and put my head on my knees. John quickly walks out to check on me:

"Angel, do you need me to take you back to Baker Street?"

"No, Sherlock said—"

"Screw what he said; if this bothers you I'll take you back to Baker Street."

"I'll be okay John. I've done this before…it's just more personal this time. I still need to say goodbye." I stand up; trying to keep my hands from shaking.

John watches me and finally nods; we were about to go back in when Sherlock rushes out with a couple of sample bags. "What are you doing out here?" he asks us.

John gives Sherlock a look as he continued. "Ah, you're having an emotional breakdown. The sweat perspiring on your brow, shaking hands, and shallow breathing tells me you're nervous and nauseated, but the fact you haven't ran into a bathroom or puked in the morgue shows that it isn't the dissection that bothers you—it's the person."

"Isn't obvious?" I dryly ask him.

Sherlock smirks at me. "I'll be in the lab running some tests and then I'm heading back to Baker Street to look at the disk. John when you get the results bring them to me immediately." Sherlock disappears in a fit of excitement. John and I walk into the morgue. I see Molly walk back in with some coffee and give it to Holmes.

I have déjà vu of when I made coffee runs for my friends. NCIS agents lived on coffee; even Trent, but he always stuck with chocolate flavors. He had a bit of a sweet tooth that his dentist and I constantly bother him about him eating so much candy. Trent would simply reply:

"Candy is my stress reliever: Gibbs has carpentering and coffee, Abby has Caf-pow and music, McGee has computer games and writing, Ziva has swimming and running, and Tony has womanizing and movies. I have candy and sports; take that away and I'll explode!"

I start laughing to myself at my brother's past antics. I soon stop when everyone starts staring at me like I've lost my mind. I notice Sherlock beginning to leave, but he looks over at me to say: "Stop blushing, we all know you're not insane, well not completely." He then leaves me behind with John and Molly.

Molly giggles. "Wow, Sherlock just made a joke—isn't that funny?"

I grin in agreement with her and John; Yes, funny that.

Sherlock walks into his flat and up to his room. He takes the disk out of his trench coat and shoves it into his laptop:

"4th. Hudson came. Same old platform.

7th. Sent the pips on McCauley, Paramore, and John Swain, of St. Augustine.

9th. McCauley cleared.

10th. John Swain cleared.

12th. Visited Paramore. All well."*

Sherlock looked at the date the file was saved: March 12th, 2006. Sherlock opened a window and researched: March 2006 deaths of McCauley, John Swain, and Paramore

Sherlock shifted through boring results of blogs and funeral announcements of local newspapers, and remembered why he hated google. He finally found police reports:

March 10th- John Swain and his wife Jessie were driving home in their olds mobile when their car exploded; burning and instantly killing both the driver and passenger.

March 11th- Arthur McCauley, missing since the 9th, found in the Mississippi river. Death by drowning.

March 12th- Luke Paramore committed suicide from cyanide poisoning by vehicle exhaust.

Sherlock madly grinned; the list before him was a hit list. Just like the Shaws; McCauley, Swain, and Paramore's deaths were made to look like accidents. Whatever he smelt in Shaw's lungs and the bath oil must've been a drug that the killer used to draw out its victims. It was more than a one man job, since the file was undoubtedly an email sent to Elias Shaw to confirm the targets were taken down. One of the men's names were Hudson—amusing that Mr. Hudson was a criminal himself, but this was way above his level. Why not kill only Elias Shaw? Why the father and son as well…unless the entire family are targets…no that was stupid they all would have been killed when they attended the funeral. There was something else—the estate—no, assassins wouldn't kill for something so obvious. The deaths had no connection to the KKK like the others did—

There was a knock on his door as Mrs. Hudson called: "Sherlock?"

Sherlock frowned in frustration. "What!"

"You have some visitors; agents from NCIS," Mrs. Hudson sounded nervous. "They want to talk to you."

"I'm busy," Sherlock shouted out.

The door suddenly opens and agent Gibbs walks through with Angelina's large twin trailing behind him:

"Good, because I have plenty of time." Gibbs glares at Sherlock and smirked at the detective's annoyed glower.

"Hmm, no I don't think you do: you aren't the patient type agent Gibbs and I have plenty of thinking to do—"

"I don't care." Gibbs snapped indignantly.

Sherlock didn't even flinch from Gibbs' uncompromising tone. "What a coincidence: I honestly don't care about your need to solve this case, but go ahead and ask your questions."

"You sure?" Trent taunted.

"'Are you sure,'" Sherlock corrected Trent, who looked like he wanted to strangle him. Holmes smirked at irking Trent Garrio and hissed: "Try me."

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.

Haha-I love my character interactions-they're so much fun to write. Please review and critique my writing and characters, so I know that I'm doing alright. Thanks for reading and reviewing! :)