"I think sitting down might be a wise move on my part, Jethro." The medical examiner was looking decidedly peaked as Gibbs maneuvered him into the mansion, one arm under Ducky's and the other pushing the door open to guide him in. "Mind you, I'm pleased that you were able to persuade Dr. Brody to release me, but I shan't be coming in to the office for several days. You might want to warn Mr. Palmer that we shall have quite a backlog of work to catch up on upon my return."

Gibbs chuckled. "I'll do that, Ducky. Let's get you inside. And, by the way, you're babbling."

"Am I?" Ducky looked around the parlor as though he'd never hoped to see it again. Not far from the truth, my friend. Not far from the truth. Ducky blinked. "I suspect it is from the side effects of the analgesia I've ingested. Why, I remember a case, several years ago it was, where I extracted sixteen intact tablets of oxycodone from the stomach of a deceased young sailor. The initial supposition was suicide by drug overdose, but the quantity was insufficient as well as unincorporated into the vascular circulation—" He stopped short, taking in the rest of the parlor's inhabitants. "My goodness. We are a sorry lot, aren't we?"

DiNozzo: arm strapped to his chest, wearing a pajama top around his shoulders since it wouldn't fit over or around the sling. He was also wearing lines of pain that suggested he too was benefiting from prescribed narcotics. McGee: taking up more than his share of sofa in order to elevate his leg where the shrapnel had hit it. He demonstrated more couth in front of the ladies by wearing something Fitting for an Author in Residence, a bathrobe that was freshly washed. Gibbs suspected Abby, perched on the arm of the sofa, had retrieved enough of McGee's clothing to keep him from complaining too much while recuperating in the clutches of Mrs. Mallard and her Welsh Corgis. Even Ziva bore a fading black eye from where she'd been too slow to duck. Gibbs nodded to himself; it had been a wise decision to cluster his chicks in the same house. He could keep an eye on all of them during the convalescent period.

Abby jumped up. "C'mon, Ducky. You need to sit down," she scolded. "Gibbs, help him to this chair."

"Yes, Abby." Since that was what he intended to do in the first place, Gibbs proceeded on course. Gibbs was not best pleased at the wobbling gait his medical examiner demonstrated, but there was little he could do about it except make sure that the man didn't fall down and rip out the stitches in his chest. Gibbs felt a chill run up and down his spine at how close it had been. They could have been gathered here for Ducky's funeral. He eased the man down onto the seat of the chair, well aware that without help Ducky's descent would have been a great deal less controlled.

Kuryakin approached. He too bore evidence of the case, having replaced the dressing across his forehead with a small bandage that gleaned whitely in the afternoon sun shining through the windows. He extended his hand. "Dr. Mallard, it's a pleasure to finally meet you properly. I'm—"

"Illya Kuryakin. Yes, I'm well aware of who you are," Ducky interrupted.

Kuryakin halted. "You are?"

Solo too bore a puzzled expression. "You know Illya?"

Ducky settled himself comfortably into the overstuffed chair, grateful to be off of his feet even after walking such a short distance. He snorted. "Really, Mr. Solo. I may be a mere medical examiner, but even I will notice when over the years a man who is an exact copy of myself appears periodically in my sphere. Even if he takes pains to remove himself once his presence is noted," he added. He wagged his finger at Kuryakin. "After one such event, I even did a short computer search with the aid of the NCIS databases."

McGee sat up in surprise. "You did? A computer search?" It was the wrong move; he sank back down, trying to pretend that the move was voluntary. With a sniff, Ziva grabbed his shoulders, easing him back into a reclining position.

"You found nothing, I hope." Kuryakin was not best pleased. "My data was supposed to have been erased."

"Close to it," Ducky admitted. "You made it most difficult for me, Mr. Kuryakin. I believe I found one reference—something about a fire near a tailor's shop—but that was all."

"Apparently it was enough," Solo said to the air. He looked at Kuryakin. "Remind me to run a few searches of my own."

Kuryakin scowled. "So we could have avoided all of this?"

"What do you mean?" DiNozzo asked.

Kuryakin sighed. "My intentions were honorable, Dr. Mallard; as honorable as my apologies are sincere. My goal this past week was to remove you from the playing field, and by doing so protect your life. You should not have been exposed to sordid affairs such as this, merely because of coincidental similarity to me. Had I known that you were aware of my presence, I would simply have presented myself at your doorstep and enlisted your help." He scowled once more. "I still have no idea how your mother can tell us apart. No one else can."

"The dogs, too," Solo put in. "You must have a different scent."

McGee spoke up. "What about the PAMELA, boss? It will take a while to find a substitute for the emerald, but it can still be adapted to another gem. It's dangerous."

Gibbs shrugged. "Solo and I turned it over to another agency, and it's going to another warehouse. I think it's located somewhere in South Dakota. If someone is going to go look for it, they'll have to find South Dakota first, and it'll get harder from there."

Abby nodded. "This time it's going to be lost for good."

Ziva's turn. "What about Commander Graybelle, Gibbs?"

"Yeah," DiNozzo put in. "I have a special interest in making sure he gets what's coming to him." He rubbed his shoulder, trying to scrub away the discomfort.

"He's finished," Gibbs informed them all. "His court-martial's less than a week away. Nobody wants him to go anywhere for a long, long time."

Mrs. Mallard appeared from the kitchen, Seaman Van Olnicker towering behind her. Each one wore a frilly apron but neither—and Gibbs checked—had a smudge of flour on his or her nose. Both held silver trays in their hands.

"Tea," Mrs. Mallard announced.

"And scones," Van Olnicker put in. He beamed. "Mrs. Mallard has the most wonderful recipes!" He set the tray onto the coffee table, and began to hand out plates.

Mrs. Mallard wasn't finished. She too set down her tray, and headed straight for the corner cabinet.

Only Dr. Mallard recognized what she was after. "Mother!" he scolded. "I'm sure our guests don't want any—"

"Hush, Donald." Mrs. Mallard wasn't taking any back talk from her son. "This is good for what ails them." She held up a bottle of golden liquid, and everyone there recognized the label. Even more, they recognized one of the numbers written onto the label: thirty year old Scotch. She splashed a healthy dose into each tea cup before adding a hot steaming tea and passing them out. Ducky sighed, accepting his cup.

"Mr. Waverly was right: a remarkable woman." Solo held his tea cup high in the air in a salute. "To Mrs. Mallard!"

The others followed suit. "To Mrs. Mallard."

the end