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"Lestrade, what's interesting about this one?" asked Sherlock, staring perplexedly at the broken body on the pavement. The dead man was in his mid-30s, about 5'11" and lean, had pale skin and short brown hair (now mingled with dried blood), and he was sprawled indelicately on the ground where he had landed after jumping off his roof. "Clearly it was a suicide. Why are you wasting my time?"

"Because," said Lestrade heavily, "There was a suicide note."

"And?"

"And... I think you're gonna want to read it."

Sherlock turned to follow the DI inside, where the evidence had all been sealed into plastic bags. Spinning back around, he addressed John, who was kneeling by the body.

"John. Keep examining the body and keep a lookout for Gwen."

"Got it," John called back as Sherlock strutted into the house.

Lestrade strode over to a table and picked up one bag, pulling out its contents with his gloved hands. Passing the paper into Sherlock's similarly gloved hands, Lestrade said,

"The case looks like a clear suicide, and technically he did leave a note, but I don't feel that it all fits together. The note is so... Well it doesn't make any sense to me. Do you understand what it means?"

Sherlock's eyes scanned the paper, and he muttered the text aloud. The note ran thus:

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.

"You're right..." he murmured thoughtfully, "This was a murder, not a suicide. There's some sort of... hidden message in this note. But for who? And what's the code?..."

Suddenly Lestrade and Sherlock heard John's voice drifting through the door. He was speaking very loudly, urgently, but they couldn't make out his words. Sharing a bewildered look, the DI and consulting detective rushed outside. Sherlock stopped cold as he observed the scene in front of him.

There stood John, struggling to keep a firm hold on Gwen's arms. Her eyes were glued to the corpse and she wasn't making any sound, but her skin was pale and glistening and she was clearly trying to lash out physically.

"It's alright, Gwen!" said John, "Please, calm down, you're going to be alright. Shh, come on, come here, it's alright."

Finally having gotten a grip on the crazed young woman, John pulled her (still struggling) into his chest, wrapping his strong arms around her back and holding her tightly. After a moment, Gwen's fight disappeared and she simply stayed put, trembling in the confines of John's arms. Sherlock crossed the lawn in a few quick—long—steps to stand by John's side.

"What's going on? What happened?" demanded Sherlock quietly. John shot him a gentle glare, making it clear that he wanted Sherlock to shut up. Sherlock scowled but nodded his head sharply. Feeling a tug at his coat, Sherlock turned to Lestrade in surprise. Tucking his hands in his pockets, Lestrade nodded towards the victim's house and headed back in. Sherlock trailed reluctantly after him. Standing in the doorway, he stole out last look at John with his arms wrapped comfortingly around Gwen's shaking body, before he vanished inside.

With a tired sigh, John plopped down onto the armchair in their flat.

"She's in my bedroom now," said John quietly, glancing up at his friend who was pacing the room. "I doubt she's sleeping though. She looks as though she's still in shock."

"Tell me exactly what happened, John."

"Right well... she clearly knew the victim. She got out of the cab and started to explain how she'd only just gotten your text when she saw the body. She went absolutely silent and her eyes were completely fixated on him, not even blinking. Her hands started twitching and she stumbled towards him, then backwards again. Her arms started... jerking sporadically. It was rather frightening actually. It looked like she was having some sort of... fit. That's when I went to her and tried to calm her down. Then you and Lestrade came outside and saw the rest."

"This is the second victim in a row that Gwen has known personally. So. It's not an accident then. Someone is specifically trying to scare Gwen. Or warn her."

"Warn her what?"

Sherlock fixed his best friend with a grim look.

"That she's up next."

Gwen stared up at the ceiling in John's bedroom. Her limbs were all trembling slightly, the nerves having been stretched and snapped like the strings of Sherlock's precious violin.

Speaking of which, was that his violin playing softly downstairs? Yes, it was. Gwen shut her eyes, trying to let the music soak into her skin and soothe her, as it normally did. It had no such effect. Gwen's burning mind raced furiously, twisting the melody cruelly in her ears so that it sounded more akin to a dirge than the lighthearted tune that it actually was.

Gwen's eyes shot open again and she stared at the ceiling once more, deciding to count the lines in order to block out her incessant, screaming, nauseating thoughts.

One, two, three, four, what's the worst part of this situation?, five, six, seven, is it the fact that I'm the cause of two innocent people's deaths?, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, or is it the fear of losing my own life?, thirteen, fifteen-no fourteen, now fifteen, or is it not knowing who will die next?, sixteen, seventeen, how can I protect them if I don't know who will be targeted?, seventeen, wait- sixteen?, no- eighteen now, I never thought that Mr. T would... Stop it Gwen. The ceiling. Focus on the ceiling. What number was I at?

Suddenly Gwen's eyes were blurred and she couldn't make out the lines on the ceiling any longer. For all of a second she feared that she was going blind... until she made the connection and understood- she was crying. Those were tears fogging up her eyesight. What a strange thing. She couldn't even remember the last time that she'd cried. What a strange notion...

Squeezing her eyes, Gwen let the tears flow freely down her cheeks. The wet streaks down her face were somehow comforting in that they felt different and uncomfortable. Anything uncomfortable was good: it kept her mind off of more dire matters.

"Gwen?"

The girl ignored the tentative voice. In fact, John was not even sure if she'd heard him. Taking a quiet seat next to her on the bed, John reached out a hesitant hand. When she still did not react in any way, he brushed his cool fingers against her warm forehead. He tenderly brushed the stray hairs off her face before continuing to stroke her hair soothingly.

"Gwen? You'll be alright, I promise you. I reckon there's nowhere safer in London than with Sherlock and I. We'll never let anything happen to you. You're completely protected here. Alright? I promise. I promise."

Gwen's mouth opened and her face scrunched a bit as she tried to speak. Clearly she was having trouble. John waited patiently. Finally, she closed her mouth, licked her lips and tried again.

"My fault." It was barely more than a whisper, but John's attentive ears caught it. A growth of sympathy sprouted in the pit of his stomach and he quickly moved so that he was lying directly next to Gwen on the bed. Gently he reached out and turned her face towards him. She shifted so that she was lying on her side, facing him. Her eyes numbly met his and he shook his head slowly and firmly.

"It is not your fault," he assured hoarsely. "There are crazy people in the world, but you are not accountable for their actions. Don't think for one moment that any of this was your fault. You are... incredible, and beautiful, and... one of the kindest... people I've ever known."

At his words, Gwen's jaw quivered briefly. Squeezing her eyes shut, fresh tears streamed down her damp cheeks and pained sounds emitted from the back of her throat, as though she was attempting—and failing—to stifle them. John traced her face lovingly with his fingers, wishing with all his might that he could take away her pain. Having no better solution, he leaned forward and rested his forehead gently against her own. Wrapping his arm around her waist, he held her close in perfect silence as she cried long into the night.

As she remained in the embrace of the man who cared so deeply about her, Gwen's mind began to settle. The tears maintained a steady trickle down the tracks on her face, but her nerves had begun to calm down and she felt more at peace. The drifting sounds of Sherlock's violin were still floating up from the downstairs, and now she was comforted by the melodies. The notes soared sweetly in the air, sending waves of brightness and joy up through the floor, tickling Gwen with their light, teasing fingers. Smiling, Gwen closed her eyes and faded into sleep, surrounded by the warmth of John's presence and Sherlock's music.