1969

George had been getting death threats. They'd been turning up in stacks each morning, and you'd watch him open them with trembling hands at the dinner table, forcing himself to read the words of fans who once sent adoring professions of love.

What they and he didn't know, is that you were a extremely protective spouse, and like hell you were going to watch the man you loved tear himself to pieces over empty threats.

So for the past month, you;d been tracing back the letters, finding the authors and- well, to put it lightly- murdering them.

To Georges glee, the amount of mail had gone down, and he wouldn't even open the couple that would sit under the door. He'd kiss your temple, grinning about how 'They'd finally given up, the bastards' and how 'nobody could touch the Harrisons'.

Damn right they couldn't.

He was oblivious, of course, to the reason they had gone down, though the media hadn't. The story of the 'Oxford Ripper' had increased in the press, much to your amusement and Georges nervousness, though you'd assured him all would be fine.

This morning, you'd awoken to him, wide eyed, staring at a slip of paper in his hands, another dozen on the table.

You'll die. You all will. Your guts will hang from Abbey Road with your heads on spikes. Good luck with the album- O.R

Someone was using your hard-earned title to threaten him? No way on earth you were going to let that stand.