Welcome to my first Sherlock fanfic! Sorry, the chapters are quite short (relatively new to the fandom) but they should hopefully expand as we go along :) Enjoy! -Sophie x

The man moved frantically through the darkened alleyways of London, his long coat swishing behind him. He was heading towards the sound of moans, of cries, pleas for help.

"Sherlock. Help me..."

The curly haired man turned the corner to see his flatmate John, sprawled across the floor, surrounded by a pool of blood. Sherlock scanned him quickly- torn coat at the shoulders so he must have been grabbed, few signs of injury at the front, not as much blood as there could be- a stabbing.

"John? Are you still with me?"

No answer.

Sherlock was starting to panic now. The colour had drained from his friends face and his lips were going slightly blue. The detective called 999 quickly, and held the injured man's hand, which was cold and clammy with sweat and blood. His pulse was weakening, and John now had no colour left at all.

He was nothing but a corpse Sherlock would see on a daily basis. Nothing but another client. Still, silent, dead. The faint sound of a heart monster could be heard in the distance, the sound of a flat line- no heartbeat.

The alley started to spin as the genius tried to make sense of what was happening, but it was useless.

"You let him die."

Jim Moriarty.

Sherlock didn't move a muscle.

"You should have saved him."The sound of another male picked up beside him.

"You could have stopped the bleeding. Why didn't you?" Lestrade.

Sherlock turned slowly to see more familiar faces.

Molly.

Mycroft.

Mrs Hudson. "Oh Sherlock," she sighed sadly, "what have you done..."

"SHUT UP!" He shouted, unable to control himself. "SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP!"

"You killed him." Said Molly shakily.

"It's your fault, little brother. You were always so useless... Nothing changed at all, did it." Mycroft stated bluntly. They all formed a circle around him and moved forward slowly, trapping the detective where he stood.

"You killed him, you killed him, you killed him." They chanted, over and over again as they drew ever closer. Sherlock found himself crying; mourning the death of his best friend, being tormented by those he thought cared about him, the feeling of failure- something the great Sherlock Holmes had never felt.

He felt his chest constrict as his friends and colleagues trapped him against the cold alley wall. He couldn't breathe, there was no oxygen- he was suffocating, suffocating, suffocating...