A/N: This story began as an idea that wouldn't leave me alone, back in 2012. By NaNoWriMo 2014 I finally managed to spit out a rough draft, but then it again sat dormant until Seleya889 (aka Hinky-Hippo) gave me a poke about the 2016 NCIS Big Bang. I realized it was time to put myself 'out there' once again with a major multi-chapter fic. I'm both excited and terrified, but people have been bugging me to post again, so what the heck. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Many thanks are due to the following people:

To my dear friend Scousemuz1k, for beta work above and beyond the call of duty. This work is so much better because of you!

To Seleya889, who created some amazing artwork to accompany this story - I am in awe of your talent, and very proud to have your beautiful art linked to my story. Thank you! Since I can't post links here, and the "cover image" function on this site is useless as it chops everything down to a narrow rectangle, please visit her on AO3 to view the artwork. I have an account on AO3 as well, and you can also access the art that way.

To Solariana (Jacie) on LiveJournal, for organizing and administering the NCIS Big Bang. What a huge task, and I'm amazed that you do it all, with no assistance! Thank you for keeping us organized and making this challenge run like clockwork. You ROCK!

Chapter 1

"I got five already!"

"Loser. I got 12."

Wading through the tall grass near a large water hazard on the 14th hole at Cypress Point Golf Club, harvesting lost golf balls, was a favourite summer pastime for brothers Trevor and Michael Stanley. For the last couple of seasons, the haul had increased, likely due to fears of Lyme Disease and West Nile virus that made the duffers wary of venturing into the marshy area. Mindful of their mother's concern, the boys always wore long pants, shirts with sleeves, and doused themselves in bug spray, although the mandatory hat and gloves, without fail, came off and got shoved in their backpacks the moment they were beyond sight of the house.

It was a lucrative business, and the two boys could be found here at least once or twice a week during the summer months. The young entrepreneurs were quite pleased with their haul on this bright, sunny day, and it seemed that by week's end, they'd each have pocketed an extra $30 or so from passing golfers eager to save a few bucks on nearly new Titleist or Nike balls.

"Hey, that looks like one over there!" the tow-haired Michael called to his sibling, rushing towards the white glint he'd spotted in the brush further back in the woods that bounded the course. Startled wildlife scattered in multiple directions at his approach. Trevor was busy combing through some long reeds by the water's edge and paid little heed…until he heard a yelp of horror.

"What? What'd you find, dude?" Shaking the mud from his shoes, 12-year old Trevor made his way towards the spot from which Michael, two years his junior, had just emerged.

"It's a dead guy!" The younger boy was visibly shaken, and his face had gone several shades paler.

"Yeah, right! Not falling for that one." Trevor brushed past his brother to look for himself. Their mother had a reputation as a practical joker - a trait that Michael had inherited. To his great embarrassment, Trevor had fallen for more than one elaborate ruse in the past few months at his brother's hand, and he wasn't about to get caught again.

But this was no joke. "Woah!"

"We should tell someone," Michael urged, regaining his composure. He glanced out at the fairway to make sure they hadn't drawn the attention of the course marshall, who'd ridden past them on a golf cart not five minutes earlier.

"Just a minute…hey, this guy's military! He's got dog tags." Trevor pulled on the chain around the man's neck. He squinted to decipher the inscription. "Hartmann. Wilhelm B. O Pos. 638 34 2309. USMC."

"Hey, don't touch him, Trev! Haven't you ever watched CSI? You'll get in trouble if you contaminate the scene." He paused, then added soberly, "they might think you had something to do with it."

"Oh shit. Yeah. Shoulda kept my gloves on." Trevor emerged from the brush, wiping his hands on his jeans. Looking up, he noticed Michael grinning broadly, and realized he'd been had, yet again. He pursed his lips.

"We better call the cops," the younger boy said, digging around in his backpack for his cell phone.

Trevor shook his head, slung his own backpack over his shoulder, and marched out onto the well-manicured fairway, beckoning Michael to follow him. "No way. We go to the clubhouse. Let THEM call the cops. The less involved we are the better."

It had been two weeks since the MCRT had had an active case - an unusually long stretch. At first it had been a welcome reprieve, but after 8 days of poring over cold cases for fresh ideas, everyone on Team Gibbs was starting to go a little numb.

The stack on Tony's desk wasn't going down as quickly as Tim and Ellie's. Tim took note of this, and surmised (correctly) that his partner's head wasn't in the game.

For some time now, Tony had been in a funk; merely going through the motions. He was so good at his job, that anyone who didn't work with him on a daily basis would never have detected the decrease in his performance. But Tim had noticed. As had Gibbs. The bossman was becoming increasingly annoyed and impatient with his second. Meanwhile, Tony plodded along, seemingly oblivious to the rising tension. Tim was genuinely worried that things would soon come to a head between the two men; and when they did, he did not want to be around to witness it.

He had once thought Tony to be very ambitious. In fact, Tim cringed every time he remembered the way he and Ziva had goaded DiNozzo back in 2007, when he'd briefly taken over the team. "You're not Gibbs," they had reminded him, time and again. No, he wasn't. But in hindsight, maybe that had been a good thing. He'd been an excellent team leader, McGee had to admit. You never knew what you had until you'd lost it, and yes, these days he occasionally wished Gibbs had never returned from his little hiatus in Mexico, and that Tony were still in charge.

Tim now knew that Director Shepard had offered Tony his own team. He couldn't imagine why DiNozzo had turned it down. Seven years on, the SFA seemed altogether too comfortable in his present position. Or perhaps it was merely inertia? Stan Burley had recently commented that Tony had been playing second-fiddle to Leroy Jethro Gibbs far longer than he had ever imagined possible, and expressed awe and amazement that he'd managed to tough it out for so long. For his part, McGee was starting to wonder why his partner seemed to be stuck. Not that he minded; he couldn't imagine what his life would be like without Tony as a buffer between him and Gibbs.

But underneath the veneer, DiNozzo was a very private man. Tim could engage in all the armchair psychology he wanted, and it wouldn't get him any closer to the truth. There was no telling what was causing Tony's current malaise. It might not be work-related at all. Possibly he was worried about his father, whose behaviour was becoming increasingly erratic. Dating woes were another very real possibility, and come to think of it, Tony had been unusually quiet on that topic for quite awhile now.

Tim couldn't stand the silence in the bullpen any longer, and felt the need to fill the void. Maybe he could draw Tony out, get him to open up about what was bothering him?

"Only three files left to go," he announced, conspicuously moving two folders to the other side of his desk.

"It's not a race, McGee," Tony fired back, leaning back in his chair and flipping the page on the file he was studying. "There are people who've been waiting for years to get closure on some of these cases. We owe it to them to take our time and study them properly."

The comment cut Tim to the quick, and his face reddened.

Ellie felt the need to defend him. "It's not that we're rushing through them, Tony. There's nothing new here. I've been through these files three times already, and I just can't find anything that got missed the first time around."

Tim added, "Believe me, Tony, if there was even a shred of evidence that could be re-examined or explored in a different way, I'd be all over it. I can't even think straight anymore. I need to go home." He shot his partner a pointed glance.

"So do I. But don't try to tell me that after ten years, you still think Gibbs is going to let you go home just because you can't think straight."

With perfect timing, Gibbs came off the elevator at a clip, snapping shut his cell phone.

"Nobody's going home, DiNozzo. Grab your gear. We got a dead Marine at a golf course in Norfolk."