Author's note: Thanks for reading. I now have a relatively firm idea of where I want to go with this story. I say relatively because I am always changing my mind. Ah well. Please review! Thanks so much.


The next morning, Gwen opened her eyes to see the ex-army doctor looking right back at her. She smiled gently, already perfectly awake.

"Good morning Gwen," he greeted.

"Same to you, Dr. Watson," she murmured back, enjoying the playful glare that he shot her even as he smiled.

"How are you feeling?" he asked concernedly.

"Better. Thanks."

"Shall I go make us some breakfast?"

"That would be lovely. I'll just... shower." Planting a delicate kiss on Gwen's forehead, John climbed out of bed and exited the room. Gwen listened as he tromped down the stairs.

How domestic we are... she thought with an amused smile. Quickly she jumped out of bed herself and stripped down, only to pause, fully in the naked. She'd forgotten that her bathing robe was downstairs. Opening John's closet, she soon found his robe and wrapped it around herself instead. Holding the loose fabric tight around her, Gwen made her way to the bathroom. Just as she was about to yank the door open, it was thrown open from the inside. In her path stood a very surprised, wet, tall, gorgeous man with pale skin, a well-built body, black hair flattened by the moisture, eyes that had widened an unusual amount, and—luckily—a towel wrapped around his lower half.

"Oh, well, I'm... sorry," she fumbled awkwardly, attempting to pull the bathrobe even tighter around her body. Gwen could see the tension lacing through his body as he stood still, clenching the door handle tighter.

Not speaking a word, Sherlock brushed past her, walking calmly towards his own bedroom. Tearing her eyes away from his retreating figure, Gwen blushed and hurried into the bathroom, trying to tell herself that it was no big deal, that it was in fact a shock that a situation such as this one had not occurred already during her stay. But these logical evaluations did nothing to erase the picture from her mind or the heat from her cheeks.

When Gwen finished her morning rinse, she put on the spare set of clothes which she kept stored in the bathroom and made her way downstairs, where she found John and breakfast waiting for her at the table.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was now dressed in his usual casual attire and playing his violin beautifully. Upon spotting Gwen, he set the instrument down and strutted quickly to her, thrusting a piece of paper into her hands.

"What does it mean?"

"For goodness sake Sherlock, she's only just come down. Let it sit a minute," protested John.

"No, it's fine John," she assured, "Work helps to... distract me." John stayed quiet, though he still clearly did not approve. Sherlock, however, smiled at Gwen, grateful that she understood. Nodding, she glanced down at the paper.

It was the suicide note. Her eyes flew over the words quickly, and then she paused. Sherlock and John could both see the cogs in her mind whirling. After a moment, she glanced back down at the paper, her eyes skimming the page more slowly, carefully.

"Well? It is meant for you, isn't it? What does it say?" Sherlock finally asked. Gwen's head slowly came up, and it was clear from the haunted look in her eyes that she understood the message perfectly. Sherlock waited impatiently, practically bouncing in his excited anticipation.

"I can't... tell you," she finally mustered. Sherlock nearly exploded.

"But you can read it! Tell me what it says! I'll have Lestrade arrest you for obstruction of justice, I swear it. Tell me what it means. Who is doing this?"

"Sherlock!" cried John. Sherlock's head snapped to his friend, who was rising from the table. "Calm down, Sherlock."

"She is withholding crucial information, John," seethed Sherlock, "I must know what the note says or we'll never solve the case."

"Listen to me," demanded Gwen. Both men turned to look at her, surprised by her commanding tone. "I can't tell you. Yes I can read it, but I know you could too if you really tried, and it'll only make it worse if I reveal it to you. Like you said Sherlock, this case is aimed at both of us. Not just me. You've got to do this one on your own." Gwen shoved the paper back into a silent Sherlock's hands. "Now excuse me, I need to get some air."

The door shuddered closed behind her and the two men were left staring blankly at each other.

"She does that a lot," commented Sherlock lightly. John rolled his eyes.

"Clearly she's distressed. There has been quite a bit going on. Do you think I ought to go after her?" Sherlock shot John a look. "Right, sorry. You have no idea, so why on earth should I ask you? Well, you at least should get to work on that note."

"Obviously," replied Sherlock in a clipped tone, throwing in an empty smirk as he flung himself down onto the couch, holding the paper above him as he studied it intently.

"I suppose I'll... go get the groceries then," announced John loudly. He was rather unsurprised when Sherlock didn't answer, already too absorbed in his work. Shaking his head—already wondering what sorts of things Sherlock would say out loud without realizing John wasn't home anymore—John grabbed his coat and wallet, and headed out.


About an hour later found John plucking a bar of soap off a shelf at the store and dropping it into his cart. Suddenly he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket.

Come home immediately. Very important. –SH

Accustomed to Sherlock's urgent way of texting about the most ordinary things, John rolled his eyes and typed out a short reply.

*Still shopping. It'll keep. –JW*

Another vibration.

NOW John. The shopping is unimportant.

*Alright, I'm almost done, hold on. I'll be back in 15 mins.*

10.

*I can't make the journey 5 minutes shorter just because you want it that way Sherlock. Just wait. Learn patience.*

John could practically hear Sherlock scoffing condescendingly as he read the text, finding it too ridiculous even to reply to. He grinned when there were no more vibrations, therefore proving his hypothesis most likely correct.

About twenty minutes later, John strolled back into their flat at 221B under the weight of several grocery bags.

"Late John. Ten... minutes... late."

"Five minutes late," corrected John immediately, "I told you it would be fifteen minutes. And then there was traffic."

"Yes well I said ten."

"The laws of the universe don't actually bend to your will Sherlock, despite all evidence to the contrary. Now since you clearly won't be helping me put all this away, will you at least tell me what you wanted me back for?"

Finally a spark reappeared in Sherlock's eyes, though his expression was grim. Rushing over to the coffee table, he grabbed the suicide note. Strutting back into the kitchen, he held the note up triumphantly.

"I've deciphered it."

"Ah! Good. What's it say then?"

"God! I don't know how it could have taken me so long..."

"Sherlock, it only took you an hour-"

"...but I've done it, and now at least the mystery begins to lessen."

"...And?"

"It's a code, John. I tried reading it all different ways. Backwards, skipping every other word, taking the first letter of each word, so on. Finally I did it. Here, listen to the note again. 'One Sunday afternoon by the park, one old couple they said we all eventually someday will undoubtedly, assuredly die. So just then I decided: I'll jump and come to the after, that for you He guaranteed. Watch me fly. Your pity can't back me up now.' Don't you hear how disjointed it all is? Some of the words just don't fit in, and certainly they don't fit together. It's as if someone inserted words randomly into the sentences."

"Alright, so what's the code?"

"Every third word, John. You read only every third word." Sherlock looked down at the paper once more, reading it aloud slowly, this time skipping two words after each word spoken. "'One by one they all will die. Then I'll come after you. Watch your back now.' That's what the note says to the person meant to read it, John."

"And that person... is Gwen?" said John in amazement. "But... why? Why her?" Sherlock looked his friend sadly in the eye.

"I don't know John. And somehow I doubt that she'll be willing to tell us."

"Does she even know herself why she's a target?"

"Oh absolutely. She knows the person who wrote this note; otherwise she wouldn't have known the code. It must be an established code between them. The question is... why would someone who used to be close to Gwen now be coming after her? They're clearly targeting people she knows... John, did she ever tell you her relation to that man?"

"No," admitted John, "I didn't want to ask about it right away."

"Well as soon as she gets back we'll have to find out. Perhaps then we can establish some sort of pattern that the killer is following..."


When night fell and Gwen still had not returned, Sherlock scowled and turned to John (sitting calmly in his armchair, reading) in the midst of his frantic pacing.

"Where is she?"

"I'm sure she'll be back."

Another two hours passed and it was past eleven o'clock. Irritated beyond belief, Sherlock pulled out his phone and brought up a new test and addressed it to Gwen's number, one of only three numbers on his phone.

You're needed at home, now. –SH

He held the phone in his hand, tapping it impatiently for a minute before it rang out. He flipped it open.

*I know. Almost there. –G*

Sherlock dropped the phone onto the coffee table and plopped down in the armchair across from John, his feet and fingers all bouncing anxiously. A few minutes later, John and Sherlock heard footsteps coming up the stairway.

"Where have you been?" demanded Sherlock as soon as Gwen entered.

"I had some errands to run," she replied vaguely, "Hello John."

"Welcome back!"

"Tell us," cut in Sherlock briskly. "How'd you know him? The victim."

"Mr. T taught at my school," Gwen revealed quietly. Leaving Sherlock momentarily satisfied as he absorbed the new information and began to make his own conclusions, she took a second to settle herself down on the couch so she could tell them the rest. "I imagine that he was chosen as a target because... well I fancied him. For a couple of years. We never... I mean, I never even told him... But they knew. And so they killed him."

"Oh Gwen..." murmured John sympathetically, immediately taking a seat beside her on the couch so he could wrap his arm comfortingly around her shoulders, rubbing her arm soothingly. Gwen was relieved at his presence, because as much as she struggled to restrain her emotions, they were rather overwhelming. The absolute despair... It was so unfair, after all. Mr. T hadn't even known that she liked him. But still he was murdered. And it was all her fault...

"Who knew?" Gwen fixed the consulting detective with a maternal stare.

"Haven't we gone over this Sherlock? I can't tell you."

"I think that's enough for tonight," said John sharply, "Let's all get some rest. We can come back to the case tomorrow."

Sherlock gritted his teeth as his stomach turned over nauseatingly. As he perceived it, his best friend had become so attached to this young girl that he was now turning on Sherlock, choosing her side over his. Without another word Sherlock stomped off to his bedroom, leaving Gwen and John rather shocked, unaware what had gotten him riled up. They had no way of knowing that Sherlock felt as though his entire world was slipping away, as though the only precious person in the universe was drifting away from him. They had no way of knowing that Sherlock's heart was breaking as he observed his best friend choose another over himself. They had no way of knowing how greatly Sherlock truly feared being left alone, friendless and unloved, abandoned by the one person of greatest importance in his life.