Practicing the violin was growing increasingly more difficult. John was a rather indifferent flat mate as far as music went. If Sherlock played when he was watching crap telly, he would just put a pair of headphones on. Or he went downstairs to watch with Mrs. Hudson. And practicing at all hours of the night rarely woke him. Gwen, on the other hand, seemed to notice everything. The night Sherlock decided to add some improv to his favorite partita, Gwen had correctly assessed the bowing technique he had used, and commented on the double stops. The following week, when a grateful client gifted him a Hardanger fiddle, he caught Gwen sitting on the landing, doing paperwork and listening. She flushed red at this.

"Sorry," she stammered, embarrassed. "I was just drawn in. Sympathetic strings are so unique sounding."

Flattered, Sherlock invited her in for a spot of tea and a private audience, but was so taken with her quick wit and vivacity that he never got around to the actual violin playing. In the course of a month, it went from a weekly to almost a daily occurrence. John and Mrs. Hudson didn't understand, of course. They smirked when watching and chuckled to themselves about his crush. Sherlock knew the chemistry of it well enough that he was positive he didn't actually have any feelings for Gwen. He rarely thought of her when she was gone, certainly didn't miss her, and could care less about having any sort of attachment to her. What Sherlock did feel, however, was a sort of relief and camaraderie with her. Not his intellectual equal, perhaps, but there was enough quickness about her that he could have a conversation and not have to wonder what she was missing. And while there were a very select few Sherlock perhaps considered his intellectual equals, they always were criminals or family, meaning Sherlock certainly wasn't comfortable with them, nor did he get much chance to have regular conversations with them. With Gwen, he frequently found himself elaborating on his cases. Sherlock may have been faster to make connections, to leap ahead 4 steps, but Gwen was quite good with picking up patterns. More importantly, she understood the emotion of it all so much more. There were times when the motivation behind something made little sense to Sherlock, but Gwen grasped it more easily and naturally.

John found the entire thing enormously entertaining. He was still Sherlock's assistant in every sense of the word. Gwen worked so much, and such odd hours, Sherlock had never invited her along on a case. But when John was out on a date with one of his never ending string of girlfriends, Gwen was always happy to fetch takeaway and bounce ideas back and forth. Moreover, she was a willing audience, even if she wasn't as complimentary as John. Gwen also didn't appear to have any romantic motives, which was a relief.

Still, there was something about Gwen that didn't quite sit right with Sherlock. He'd asked her once over tea how often Mycroft asked after him.

"All the time," she said with a laugh. "He's quite convinced a number of people and organizations are ready to do you in at any moment. At least he stops asking questions once he's reassured you aren't in any immediate danger."

But she'd kept her eyes averted the rest of the conversation. Sherlock wondered what, exactly, she was telling Mycroft. Not that it mattered, really, what Mycroft knew. He already had plenty of surveillance in place. But Sherlock couldn't help but compare her reaction to that of John, who had immediately and vehemently refused to spy on Sherlock. Although Sherlock had brushed it off at the time, this immediate show of loyalty struck him.

And then there were her working hours. Sherlock's first question was whether she worked in an analytical capacity, or as a spy. Mentally, she seemed quite well suited as an analyst, but she certainly kept the hours of a spy. And it seemed natural that Mycroft would want to place an agent as close to him as possible. Efforts to follow her proved futile, however, as Mycroft always sent a car for her, and he would not look kindly on Sherlock following. Finally, Sherlock had recruited a member of his homeless network to bang on her door at 4 in the morning and shout threats. The answer had been rather clear. Comical, too, although Sherlock felt a bit guilty about that part.

After a minute of shouting, Sherlock slipped the man some money and shooed him away.

"Gwen, are you alright?" he'd called. No response, except for a slight fumbling sound. Sherlock turned the knob, surprised to find it unlocked. As he walked in, a trembling Gwen swung the base of a lamp at him, realizing the instant she swung it that it was Sherlock and not her unknown assailant. Rather hastily, Sherlock ducked as Gwen yanked the lamp back toward her in an effort to not hit Sherlock. It bounced off her forehead with a resounding 'thwack.' Gwen stared at it in shock for a moment as Sherlock tried to hold back his laughter. Then she dropped the lamp and began crying.

"Someone was trying to break in," she managed to choke out. "And I tried calling 911, but that isn't the emergency number here, and I don't know what the emergency number is, and I don't really have any baseball bats or crowbars about, I barely found this lamp and I haven't been trained in any kind of defense."

Sherlock had patted her arm. He frequently saw John do this to distressed victims.

"Locking the door is always a good start. Try 999 next time."

Gwen nodded stared down, tears silently rolling down her cheeks. The spot where she hit her forehead was a brilliant shade of red. Sherlock felt a twinge of guilt.

"Come upstairs," Sherlock told her, pulling lightly on her arm. "I'll put the kettle on, and wake John. He can have a look at your head."

It wasn't a concussion, and the lump had gone down within the week, so no lasting damage. Between forgetting to lock the door, not knowing them emergency number, and hitting herself in the head with a lamp, Sherlock was quite sure Gwen wasn't a spy. Her survival instincts were almost ridiculously bad. But he was fairly sure she wasn't just an analyst either. So what was she?