Disclaimer: All I own of these two shows is the DVDs (and in the case of H:LOTS, some old VHS tapes). No profit, just fun.

Background Information:

This story is set post S6 ‘Knockout’ and is rated M for language and violent content. Real police curse almost as bad as sailors.

For most NCIS fans, some of the Homicide: Life on the Street lingo may seem a little foreign. I’ve tried to get the point across as best as possible without having to get overly wordy in exposition and explanations, while remaining as true as possible to the dialogue and spirit of the two separate shows.

Any minor racial slurs are used in character and not intended to offend the reader. One of the H:LOTS guys has a tendency to use them as “terms of endearment”.

Also, this will not be slash, because I want to keep as close to canon as possible (so I may do subtext). Any references to homosexual or bisexual characters will have existed in the original series (Homicide, anyway - I can’t think of any from NCIS).

Chapter 1 - December, 1999

“Homicide - we speak for the dead.”

Detective Meldrick Lewis answered the phone in typical acerbic Baltimore Homicide fashion, trying to rub away the headache that was determined to make his already shitty day even worse. He was secretly praying for an easy drug murder, a simple wife-kills-abusive-husband, or a basic trick-gone-bad killing; anything to keep him from a long, drawn-out case working with the new guy.

Gaffney’s new guy.

With Gee out of the department playing politics and that jellyfish mick Gharty filling in as shift commander, the Captain made his power play by recruiting some new detectives for the ever-aging, ever more cynical and increasingly jaded crew currently at work. And just Lewis’ luck, he got stuck with the young kid who, rumor had it, came from money and had some fancy college degree to wave over his head. At least the kid was Italian, so he had one point on Lewis’ pro column: some of the best cops he’d ever worked with were Italian.

Crosetti. Best not to get stuck on that train of thought right now.

Falsone. Better. Crotch-driven and little dense, but better.

In the middle of his musings and his prayer, he caught the words dead kid and really messed up come from the beat cop on the other end of the line, and retching in the background from someone who couldn’t stomach the crime scene.

Guess the answer to the prayer was “no”.

“Ah, fuck.” Lewis muttered the curse under his breath, replacing the phone none too gently in its cradle. Standing and looking around, he spotted his new partner sitting at his desk, right where he was supposed to be, nose in a file. No excuse to leave without him or grab somebody else. God, I’d rather take Munchkin, even. Damn.

“Come on, DiNozzo. We caught a big one.” Lewis grabbed his hat and the car keys off his desk and started for door.

“Red-ball material, maybe?” Lewis didn’t answer and it didn’t matter. DiNozzo gathered his backpack and rushed to follow, scrunching his nose at the idea of a brass-involved case so quickly into his tenure here. They’ll probably boot me off of it anyway, if it gets that far.

They were met at the scene by two uniformed officers, the troubled looks on their faces clear as day, despite the darkness of the hour. Lewis sighed, parked the car, switched off the blue light on the dash, and popped two aspirin for the persisting headache. Neither of the uniforms was a rookie, and if they were both that wigged out about what they’d seen…well, it’d be a way to test the new guy’s stomach, that was for damn sure.

“Whaddya got for us, Mikey?” Lewis ducked under the crime scene tape DiNozzo held up for him, making a mental note that despite the crime scene crew already being on site, the new kid was carrying a camera and a sketch pad, and had his backpack full of God-knows-what slung over his shoulder. Come to think of it, Lieutenant Jellyfish might’ve mentioned something about some specialization. Damn. Musta been too busy bemoaning my bad luck and recurrent misfortune with partner assignments. At least the kid was prepared.

“It’s bad, Meldrick. You know me, I been a cop most of my life, and there ain’t much that shocks me these days. But this one…I got two kids at home. Two little girls. And, well. I’m gonna let the Doc tell you about it.” The uniform - Mikey - led the way through the small, urban park to a pile of tires set up as a makeshift fort, where the crime scene unit was setting up floodlights and the M.E. was already doing his thing. It did not go unnoticed by the two detectives that neither uniformed officer came any closer to the crime scene than was absolutely necessary.

Doc Griscom stood, looking a little grey, but not nearly as bad as the officers - the result of years spent in City and County basements, analyzing the dead, and the inherent personality traits that might drive one to become a forensic pathologist. “Victim is a pre-pubescent girl, around 8 or 9 by the look of it, black, and has been dead for approximately” - he checked the liver probe - “eight hours. At first glance, I’d say the cause of death was exsanguination, but trauma is so extensive and pervasive that I won’t be able to tell for certain until I get her on the table.”

Lewis shined his flashlight towards the body at the same time as the flood lights suddenly snapped on. He heard DiNozzo’s sharp intake of breath before his own eyes adjusted to the sudden stimulation, and when he blinked away the haze, even he had to admit cases like this always bugged him.

To say the girl had been mutilated would paint a poorly inadequate picture. More like…well. Meldrick didn’t really want to elaborate on that metaphor. Her throat had been slashed ear-to-ear, and there were multiple stab wounds present on her torso and legs. Rage. Her arms had been cut up a little, but the incisions looked more like carving marks than stab wounds. Ritual? Her wrists were bound over her head and her legs had been splayed open at an obscene, unnatural angle. Friction burns were visible on her knees. Damn. Sexual Assault… The remaining tatters of her school uniform were so covered in blood that the blue, white and green took a visual backseat to the sheer abundance of red. Her eyes were wide open and her face displayed a myriad of cuts and bruises. Terrified.

“Fuck.” DiNozzo cursed so quietly that Lewis almost didn’t catch it, but he agreed. He stood there, a deer caught in the headlights, taking a few seconds to find his voice.

DiNozzo spoke again, his voice stronger this time. “Was she raped?” When the medical examiner responded that it was likely, the new kid’s green eyes shut tight for a minute, making him look to Lewis all of 16 or 17 years old instead of 28 and incredibly…vulnerable.

When he opened them a second later however, a blank, emotionless mask slid into place so quickly that Lewis physically started, covered by adjusting his hat, and spared a moment to question why a guy not even thirty had developed this skill so perfectly when he, a homicide veteran in his mid-forties, was having trouble maintaining a stoic façade.

“Does it look like we’ll get any physical evidence off of this one, Doc?” Lewis finally wrung the words out of his throat. He needed to start acting like the professional murder police that he was, for fuck’s sake.

“Looks like, Meldrick. Even if the guy used a condom or a foreign object, given the violence of the attack I’m pretty sure there will at least be hair transfer. She fought back, too; there’s blood and tissue under her fingernails. We might be able to get some blood typing, but I’d be surprised if there was enough for DNA testing. Anything I get I’ll send to the crime lab for analysis on a priority.” Griscom looked over Lewis’ shoulder, where DiNozzo was already taking notes and making sketches. “New guy seems to have his head on straight. I think even Bayliss would’ve been sick over this one.”

“Yeah, well, Bayliss gets sick over everything these days. He’s gone a little queer, know what I mean? In all senses of the word. Not like there’s nothin’ wrong with it - I mean, I got nothing against guys who like guys, but…or guys who like guys and girls. Just, you know, it’s Bayliss.” Talking himself into a hole, Lewis just stopped and shrugged. “You know.”

“Hmmm.” The M.E. just grunted his agreement and went back to the body. Sighing again at his luck for the night, Lewis slouched over to a corner of the lot where DiNozzo was kneeling and shined his flashlight in the kid’s face. “Find anything, college boy?”

DiNozzo winced. He had known one minute into his first shift that his presence was part of a pissing contest between the brass and the Homicide detectives and that he was not welcome. Apparently, Captain Gaffney had talked him up as ‘college-educated’ and ‘the type of new blood this department needs’ and shit like that.

Basically, the kind of words that made guys like Lewis - guys who worked their way up from squad cars and parking tickets and saw the gold homicide shield as a symbol of the blood, sweat, and tears poured into a lifetime of police work - it made those guys just hate him and everything they thought he stood for. It didn’t matter that he was good at his job, or that he wasn’t some green rookie punk straight from some Masters program. He was taking up space in their close-knit world; invading support structures and invisible defenses that they had worked so hard to build, and they hated him for it.

Shaking off the self-pity by reminding himself of the dead little girl lying not thirty feet away, DiNozzo snatched Lewis’ light and aimed it at the chain-linked fence. “Someone pushed through the fence here, and it looks like they cut themselves and snagged their jeans. Might get DNA from the blood, if there’s enough, and Forensics should be able to compare fibers and tear marks from the denim when we have a suspect.” Shoving the light back into Lewis’ grip, he snapped a photo and called out to one of the crime scene guys to take samples and bag-and-tag.

“Not bad, kid. We’ll make a murder police outta you yet, in spite of that fancy college degree.” Lewis, in his own backwards way, meant the offhand remark as a compliment, but judging by the way the younger detective’s eyes narrowed and his jaw set, the kid had taken offense. DiNozzo stood quickly, coming eye-to-eye with Lewis (which, at 6’2”, not everyone could), and stepping just enough into Lewis’ personal space to make the situation uncomfortable.

“I already am a homicide detective, Lewis. I may not have the experience that a lot of you older guys have, but I assume that’s why I got partnered with a veteran.” He shrugged, tossing his hands up a little, and ran a latex-gloved hand through his light brown hair.

“I get it. Gaffney brought me in to piss you guys off that worked under Giardello. I’m not wanted. So, don’t hang out with me after work, spot for me at the gym or ask me about my personal life - and I’ll do the same, as long as you let me do my goddamn job and watch my back in the street.”

Lewis blinked, surprised by the sudden show of backbone; and then smirked a little, tapping the brim of his hat up a notch with his index finger. Kid had just earned a few more points in the ‘pros’ column. “Bet Gaffney didn’t know you had balls when he hired you. He likes ‘em spineless and brainwashed. What’d you do, Columbo your way in?”

DiNozzo looked confused for a second at the sudden approval; then flashed a grin that threatened to blind anyone in a ten-foot radius. “Yeah, something like that.” Bringing his camera back into position, DiNozzo paused for a minute.

“You do know that my ‘fancy college degree’ is in Physical Education, right?”

Laughing at a crime scene like this one was unimaginable, and Lewis did it anyway, as DiNozzo aimed his camera over his shoulder and snapped a shot of the older detective’s reaction. Might like this kid after all.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Not for profit. Just for fun.

Present Day

“McSpybot!”

Special Agent Timothy McGee, NCIS (Naval Criminal Investigative Service, thank you very much), jumped visibly in his chair, almost spilling his coffee. Closing his eyes in exasperation, he realized as he felt the tell-tale heat of a flush he couldn’t keep down that Tony would never let him hear the end of it if he noticed. Which he did. Always. I thought I’d gotten past this! I shouldn’t jump when he yells - not anymore!

The face he opted to put on resembled the one he always wore when Sarah messed up his electronics. “What, DiNozzo? I swear, if you got a virus from some gay porn site again, I’m not fixing it. You can explain it to IT yourself.” That’s it, Tim - a good offense is a good defense - don’t they say something like that in football?

“I was researching some background for a case at the time, Probie! I mean, the victim’s screen name was ‘HardAssMarine’. Who’d have thought that Googling that and... Well, now, you may have a point.” Very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo affected an exaggerated pout, by now perched on the corner of McGee’s desk, long legs in designer slacks extended and crossed at the ankles and arms folded across his chest. With his good looks and impeccable fashion sense, he looked every bit the GQ model that he’d tried to convince the ladies in accounting he was. Would’ve succeeded, too, if it weren’t for McSpoilsport. “But anyway, this has nothing to do with sodomy or any other form of man-on-man love.”

Smack.

“I would hope to hell not, DiNozzo.” Gibbs rounded the corner, coffee in hand, and slapped the back of DiNozzo’s head with a precision developed by years of target practice. A single raised eyebrow was the only indication that his Senior Field Agent had actually managed to shock him this time. “Rule 12 knows no limits.”

The potential offender threw his hands in the air theatrically. “Damn it! And I had such plans for us this weekend, Probie - lots of KY, a couple of rings, a judge in Iowa...” DiNozzo successfully ducked the next Gibbs-slap and headed back to his desk. By now, McGee’s face was really warm. And very red.

“I was going to ask the Proba-sexual over there if he’d had any luck with that laptop from the Wilkerson case. I can’t help it if he has a man-crush on me.”

Gibbs turned his eyebrow to McGee, suppressing any twitch that might have been a smile caused by DiNozzo’s shenanigans. “Well?”

“I do not have a man-crush on DiNozzo, Boss.”

“McGee.” Shooting the computer whiz an annoyed glare, Gibbs managed to say Tim’s surname like it was an order and sound like a disappointed parent at the same time.

McGee sighed, shaking his head. “No. Wilkerson worked at the Pentagon and the encryptions on his machine are too advanced. I’d have to spend all my time on it - and no other cases - for a really long time. Like, a few weeks. Director Vance even took a look and agreed that we should send it over to the code monkeys at Cyber Crimes.”

“You discussed this with Vance...first?” Crap. McGee flushed even redder. Judging by the low, controlled tone, Gibbs was not pleased. And an unpleased Gibbs... Maybe he should have taken Abby up on that offer to help him build his own coffin. When DiNozzo snorted and Gibbs rolled his eyes, McGee realized he must have - in his moment of panic - said the last part out loud. Today was not his day. Dig down deep. Where’s the man who survived the women’s prison? You’re better than this, Timothy. Better than Tony. Geez.

Gibbs’ cell phone chose that moment to ring, staving off the dressing down about actively involving the Director with Gibbs’ investigations and following the chain of command. Tim sighed again, reveling in the temporary relief, some of the natural color returning to his face.

Oh, sweet technology has never sounded as good as that simple, outdated ringtone on that simple, outdated portable communication device. McGee was lost enough in prayer to his ambiguous technology god that he missed the mood shift occurring as Gibbs processed the information coming from the other party on the call.

DiNozzo did not, however, being the expert in reading Gibbs’ body language that he was, and he moved to grab his backpack, not wanting to be a factor in what looked like the beginnings of a nasty Gibbs-storm. Hurricane Gibbs swept through D.C. yesterday, managing only three casualties but pissing off a lot of people on the interstate and causing a toothpick to wind up embedded in an unusual part of a Washington bureaucrat’s anatomy...

“Gear up. We got a dead body. Call Ziva from wherever the hell she is. She meets us at this address or she’s on the next flight back to Israel.”

Gibbs passed a scrap piece of paper to DiNozzo, who noticed that Gibbs’ mouth was now set in a grim, tight line, and there were shadows in his eyes that hadn’t been there before the call. Combined with previous shifts in body language and the sudden change in tone of voice to seriously pissed off, this was... Not good.

“What is it, Boss?”

“Dead girl found on the base at Quantico. MP says she looks about nine or ten. Come on, let’s move!” Gibbs stalked off towards the elevator while McGee and DiNozzo exchanged worried looks, all traces of joking gone. Their team didn’t deal with dead children often, and dealing with a dead little girl and Gibbs at the same time was going to be tortuous, at best. Slow death, at worst. The two younger agents hurried after their leader, trying to be as optimistic as possible about the case looming ahead. And failing.

Much more quickly than MapQuest would lead any internet traveler to believe, the three agents arrived at the crime scene - two of them hanging on to any part of the van available, gripping so hard their knuckles were white. DiNozzo muttered something under his breath about Gibbs’ driving versus The Intimidator’s, extracting a short laugh from McGee, but Gibbs paid them no heed and parked the truck like he was an extra in Too Fast Too Furious.

And still, Ziva had beaten them there.

“Just be glad we weren’t riding with her, McCarsick.” Smack.

“Okay, Boss, but when I’m late for work because repeated head trauma made me forget where the Navy Yard is, you’re going to be really pissed off.” All right - not his best material, and secretly he was pleased at the return of the odd displays of - what, affection? - but that one was harder than normal and DiNozzo was grasping at straws. Humor and sarcasm were his only lines of defense against the Gibbs that resembled his own father more than his mentor.

“What makes you think I’m not pissed off right now, DiNozzo?” Gibbs practically growled at the younger man, causing McGee to stumble out of the NCIS van in terror-induced clumsiness, as though he were green and straight out of Norfolk again, and glare at DiNozzo like he was insane for poking the bear.

The Senior Field Agent just winced. “Sorry, Boss. Grabbing the gear, Boss.” Well, shit.

The MP in charge of the scene met DiNozzo at the back of the van. “You Gibbs?”

“Do I look like I build seafaring vessels with hand tools in my basement while drinking the equivalent of rubbing alcohol?” DiNozzo knew he was being an ass, and the MP had done nothing to warrant the smart-ass remark. He didn’t mind the “wake-up call” head-slaps, but sometimes Tony got so tired of Gibbs taking out his anger at the world on the back of his skull. He ignored the look of irritated confusion on the military cop’s face and since his hands were loaded with equipment, jerked his head towards the front of the vehicle. “Gibbs is the guy at the front of the truck mainlining coffee and kicking puppies.” Tony stalked off with the crime scene kits, ducked under the crime scene tape and met up with Ducky and Palmer, heading towards the victim at the far end of the park while Ziva and McGee spoke with the other MPs on scene.

Watching him leave, and trying to figure out why anyone would build a boat in a basement, the MP was slightly startled when someone coughed behind him in that subtle-but-not-so-subtle way of saying ‘spit it out so I can do my job’. “Your guys clear the scene, Sergeant?”

The MP nodded, checking the badge and ID the older man flashed. “Yeah, we did, Gibbs. But... I don’t know how often you guys deal with this sort of thing, but two of mine lost their lunches. Not at the crime scene, of course. But, it’s bad.”

DiNozzo’s super-sharp hearing picked up the Sergeant’s claim of ‘bad’ as he reached the body and his super-sharp deductive skills decided the man needed a more expansive vocabulary. ‘Bad’ didn’t begin to describe it. Before him, in the mid-morning light, lay a small, black girl, not any older than ten, and mutilated was even a word he found lacking. He swallowed down his disgust, hearing Ducky swear something softly next to him, and calling back to Palmer to wait a minute before coming any further. The whole bit reminded the agent of an unsolved case that he hadn’t wanted to think about for a long time.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Gibbs slung his camera around his shoulder, sipped his coffee, and sighed, leaning on the closed back door of the NCIS van for a few minutes before heading to the crime scene. Even if he never admitted it out loud, he knew he was being unreasonable with DiNozzo. The younger man had a penchant for tolerating Gibbs’ antics and a never-ending desire for the older man’s approval or attention, and truth be told, Gibbs took advantage of the combination on more than one occasion. That brand of obedience and loyalty had its own sort of attraction; it was comfortable, easy, and a definite ego-boost. DiNozzo had refused a promotion overseas and he’d pushed and practically begged to be assigned back to Gibbs’ team when on assignment as Agent Afloat, while Burley had run off to it, trying to escape Gibbs and improve his health. Hell, DiNozzo’s put up with me longer than any of my ex-wives. He’s been showing signs of wear lately, though. Need to rein it in.

There was a reason his team didn’t handle the cases with children. Dead children, anyway, or child victims of sexual assault. Usually, the crimes fell under the jurisdiction of the local police, the suits in the Hoover building, or JAG-man investigations. When they didn’t, the cases were dispatched to other teams, with Gibbs’ team as the last resort; a directive put in place by Director Morrow and kept by his successors. The same hyper-focused tenacity that made Gibbs an asset in finding kidnapped children made him a legal liability when pursuing their murderers. Morrow may or may not have known the past events that caused the Lead Agent to react the way he did, but after the first child-killer that Gibbs pursued as Lead landed in ICU and remained comatose for a month, the Director knew it wasn’t worth the risk to NCIS to have Gibbs on the case. At least that one wouldn’t be killing anyone else’s son. Life in prison, and even with parole, life in a wheelchair makes it difficult to rape and murder six-year-old boys.

Despite his increasing apprehension towards this case, Gibbs trekked towards the main crime scene. When he saw Palmer propped against a tree a good 40 feet away from Ducky, Tony, and the body, looking about as green as the gremlin Tony affectionately insisted he was, Gibbs’s gut lurched. Following the line of sight, he saw McGee puking in an evidence bag - not contaminating the scene, at least - and his “Jedi Senses”, as DiNozzo had once called them, were at full force. He couldn’t remember a time that Ducky’s assistant had been ill at the sight of a body. The kid was wired to be a medical examiner, inappropriately morbid sense of humor and all. McGee wasn’t the naive probie that he used to be, either. What the hell is going on here? To her credit, Ziva kept the same impassive expression on her face as usual and was working, but she was sifting through the near-by trash can for evidence, steadfastly not looking at crime scene.

DiNozzo, with his own Spidey-Gibbs-sense, spoke as soon as the Boss was in earshot, without turning away from his sketching. “The MP wasn’t lying, Boss - the victim’s in pretty bad shape. Not the worst I’ve ever seen, but pretty fucking close.” When he did turn around, the first thing Gibbs noticed was how pale the agent was. The second thing was that Ducky was actually silent. The third thing was the poor child on the ground in front of him, and then all he knew for a few minutes was blinding rage.