Hey guys!

This story was written per the request of SpiritWriterXXX and DS2010

This is a continuation of my story Eleanor Rigby. Also, check out my story Who Is It For? which is an alternate ending to this story and Eleanor Rigby.

WARNING: Sad. Major character death. Talk of suicide.

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.

ENJOY!

All the lonely people

Where do they all come from?

Horror.

Silence.

No, not silence; Jethro was whining, crying. Let he who lost the most grieve first. Ziva and Tony only stared on in silent horror. They'd all cry- in due time.

How had this happened? How could they be so ignorant? He was hurting... And they didn't notice. They passed him by and pretended that nothing was wrong. They ignored him.

And now he was dead.

Timothy McGee was dead.

The young, broken agent was slumped down carelessly in the bathtub. His skin was pale- sheet while- and cold... And yet, to the touch, it was as if there was a warmth; the ghost of a memory of life. His eyes were open ever so slightly, still red and puffy from crying. The once bright green eyes were now dull and glazed- empty. The light had left his eyes. His face displayed still the anguish, pain, the utter loneliness when the last gasp of life escaped his lips. Crimson blood dribbled down the side of his head, the gun still loosely latched to his hand.

Tony's heart ached with guilt. A few days ago, McGee promised to introduce Tony to Sarah's friend's older sister. Two days ago, Tony arrived at the mall, waiting for McGee to show up, but he never did. Tony had messed up the date. It was the next day in which Tim was supposed to introduce the two to each other. When Tony arrived at NCIS headquarters the next day, yesterday, he was furious. He ignored Tim, giving him the cruel, cold shoulder. And now, Tim was dead.

It hadn't been Tony's silence, in question, which had caused McGee to do this -Tony knew that- but perhaps it had been a contributing factor. It would've had to have been years of accumulated depression to put him in the place where he was- but perhaps it was Tony's cruel silence that had pushed him over the edge...

"I-it's my fault..." Tony choked, breaking the silence. The words were dry and broken, sticking to his throat as if they were made of sandpaper. "He was hurting... I... I should've noticed..." His voice hitched as he forced the words from his throat. His trembling hand hovered over McGee's pale cheek, as if he wished to stoke his cheek, to wipe the blood from his face, but was plainly forbidden.

"Tony..." Ziva spoke slowly, struggling to find the right words. "Tony... This... This is not you're fault..." The former Mossad agent stumbled, tripping heedlessly of her slow, thick words. Her soft yet emotionless voice faltered, as if she could no longer remember how to speak English.

For all it seemed, perhaps she had been speaking another language, because to Tony, her words were foreign and of no value, and he did not respond.

Ziva crouched beside her grief-stricken team member and laid a hand on his should. "Tony, listen to me. This was not your fault. There was no was you could have known this wa-"

"He was my partner, David! I'm a cop! It's my job to notice things, and I couldn't even tell when my own partner was on the brink of suicide?!" Tony snapped, his voice going shrill and high-pitched.

Ziva didn't even flinch. "Tony, I know what you are feeling. Survivor's Guilt-"

Tony cut her off right there and stood up, whipping around to face her with anger-filled eyes. "Don't you DARE try to pass this off my grief as nothing more than Survivor's Guilt!" He lashed. "This wasn't just some skiing trip accident, David! It's wasn't just sheer luck that we're alive and he's dead! He killed himself, Ziva! He murdered himself! Don't you DARE try to write this off as just some unfortunate event!" Tony yelled. His body shook with rage and grief. He turned around again, and slumped to his knees, burying his face in his hands.

Ziva stood there, silent. She made no action, no sound to indicate the hurt Tony had inflicted on her. He was not the only one who blamed himself. She, too, was was filled with grief, and guilt that she could only just control. She knew very well that this was clearly not characteristic of Anthony DiNozzo. Although she had not been there, Ziva knew that even when Kate had been killed right in front of him, he had not acted like this. Perhaps, when he was alone, he would have small moments of grief and anguish at the loss of his former partner, but nothing that quite amounted to this.

But Ziva was certain there was a logical explanation. In their line of work, it was a daily possibility that one of them would not live to see tomorrow. Although it had been a terrible, terrible shock when Caitlin was killed, DiNozzo had been emotionally prepared for it. It was a scenario that had gone through his probably a thousand times. But suicide was different. No one was prepared for it. It was a twist none of them saw coming.

Not only that, but DiNozzo had known McGee much longer than he had known Kate. He'd watched the young agent grow up; evolve from a timid, frightened probie, to a very capable, confident, grown-up (although still geeky) field agent.

This, along with caffeine and lack of sleep is most likely what lead to the senior field agent's odd behavior.

Tony sat up, having composed himself, and said simply: "I'm sorry, Ziva. I hadn't meant to lash out at you," To which Ziva quickly forgave him. After a moment of silence, Tony spoke up again: "We should probably get him back to NCIS," and Ziva silently agreed.

AGENT LASTWISH: ALL THE LONELY PEOPLE

Abby stared at the wall. No emotion could describe what she felt right now. No form of torture could produce an agony equivalent to the pain she felt inside her. When she had first been told that McGee... Tim... Her Timmy... Had... Had killed himself... The noise, the horrible wail that exploded from her throat as she sank to her knees... It was a wail more painful that even the shriek of a mother upon learning her only son has been slaughtered. The meaningless grudge she had held against him for a stupid joke that had offended her, had caused her more pain that any wheel, any rack, could ever produce.

And when Abby remembered the note, written to her from McGee, she lunged for the trash can to retrieve it with such great desperation, that she clipped her head on the edge of the metal table. Hunkering down on the floor, she ripped open the envelope, hastily, but froze, head in her tracks before she got to the letter, for fear of what it would say. She stayed huddled up on the ground, staring at the folded up letter for hours. And when se finally got to reading it, she prayed the note was filled with malice, to ease her guilty conscience. She read the note one word at a time, pausing between each word as if she could bear to read no further. The first two words: "Dear Abby," she read about a thousand times over. It was nearly two hours before she moved on. And then it took her nearly three days to complete the letter. And when she finished, she wished she hadn't. She wished she'd stopped at "Dear Abby," and read no further.

It was a love letter.

And it broke Abby's heart.

She didn't come into work for over a week. Gibbs made her stay at his house for a long, long time, or stay with someone, so she wasn't alone. They were worried she might cut herself, or cause herself some form of physical pain, to alleviate the emotional pain.

Even when she returned, Abby wasn't the same. The music stopped. She avoided the bull pen at all costs. Avoided McGee's desk.

She didn't talk much. At least, not to other people. She talked to herself all the time. She talked to McGee.

But he never responded.

She was so lonely.

They were all lonely.

All the lonely people

Where do they all belong?