Ok, I looked back at the previous chapter and realised: Damn, I haven't updated in ages, (4 months) and my writing style really needs some polishing up. (It's quite obvious, I'm sorry) So, I'll at least try to start updating again now.
WARNING: Un-BETA'd, death.
P.S. I'm not good at emotions and etc. but I'll try!

Sherlock slammed open the door to the flat, immediately noticing the downed figure lying on the floor. Panicking, Sherlock bolted towards him and quickly checked where his injury was. There, the entry wound was on the left shoulder, dangerously close to the neck. What kind of professional sniper would go for the shoulder? Unless they wanted him to bleed out slowly…

Sherlock could save him if he stopped panicking - easier said than done - panicking caused many wasteful deaths, he was aware. Damn it damn it damn it, what was he supposed to do?! He only knew what to do with injuries when the victim was already dead!

Focus, Sherlock, and get him away from the windows, his common sense told him. Hooking his arms under Felix's, he dragged him away from the window and behind the couch, leaving a thin trail of blood behind. He then ran over to the windows. Making sure to be quick but stay out of sight, he closed all of the blinds, seeing no sniper. Damn, they had to be good if they could find a hiding place around here. Sprinting back to the bloodied man's side, he fell to his knees and quickly ran through his minimal medical knowledge.

He wasn't sure how to deal specifically with bullet wounds. Before, he always had Mycroft, John or Lestrade nearby, and they could deal with this kind of situation, so Sherlock never bothered to learn more than basic first aid, which was only common sense and CPR anyway.

Therefore, basic first-aid didn't quite cover bullet wounds.

Pressure, his mind supplied. Pressure is a good thing, right? He quickly pressed both hands down on the injury, ignoring the pained noises coming from Felix, ignoring the way his own injury was protesting, ignoring the sticky blood seeping through the material of his jeans, ignoring everything except Felix's bloodied shoulder.

"Wh- w..." A few whimpers was all the injured man could manage.

"Where is your phone?" Sherlock tried to keep a calm tone.

"Wha's happening?"

"Where is your-" Sherlock hesitated. If he called an ambulance, he'd be caught by police and pulled in for questioning. He didn't exactly have a passport, nor could he speak Swedish very well, and he couldn't waste the time or risk being found out by Moriarty's men. He was caught between a rock and a hard place, to use the common expression.

"…where is your first-aid kit?"

"K-kitchen"

Sherlock ran into the kitchen, grabbed the item in question and sped back to the main room. He ignored the sickening squelch from the blood-soaked carpet as he knelt down next to Felix's head again. The Swede was weakly applying pressure to his own shoulder.

"Wha's 'appened?"

"Bullet"

It took Felix a few seconds to process his words, but when he did, his eyes widened. Sherlock started fiddling around with bandages, trying to improvise a way to stop the volumes of blood that were quickly draining from the man's shoulder.

"Wh-wha-a..?"

"I told you, bullet." His words were sharp and harsher than he would have liked.

"But.. B- how? Why…?"

"I assume an assassin, sniper to be specific, unless you have any enemies with a gun license."

"N-nh…" His breathing was sharper, coming in short bursts, fuck… was he going into shock? Sherlock couldn't tell, his perceptive talents were inconveniently dulled, as if there were a layer of cotton wool separating his eyes and his brain. He was picking up information, but failing to process it.

He didn't know how long it had been, but Felix began convulsing unpleasantly, then stilled. In desperation, Sherlock pressed two fingers to the Swede's too-cold neck, feeling for a pulse, but there was none. He didn't even try CPR, there was too much blood, Sherlock knew it would be in vain. The original carpet colour was indistinguishable under the blood, which had pervasively soaked into every fibre, only escaping to pool around Sherlock's feet as he stood up with a loud squelch and leaned against the far wall of the room with both hands.

Why…

…WHY HADN'T HE CALLED A FUCKING AMBULANCE?!

Sherlock gripped fistfuls of his own hair with both hands, but it was oddly unsatisfying with his hair as short as it currently was. He resisted the urge to scream and smash his fists against the wall like he used to when he was a child. Instead he managed to swallow his own self-hatred and lean his head against the cool wall, fists still clenched in what was left of his hair. Blood from his hands and arms smeared across the white surface, leaving more evidence for the forensics team that would no doubt be attending this crime scene in a day or two at most. Sherlock didn't care, let them find the evidence, track him down, arrest him – he deserved it. Maybe then he could finally rest… stop this bloody nightmare that had been going on since he dived off St. Barts.

He hadn't called an ambulance because of his own selfishness, his own sense of self-preservation, he hadn't even thought twice about it. And now the most decent person he'd met in ages was dead. Dead because of him – Sherlock knew from experience how painful bullet wounds were… he was dead because he had been kind to Sherlock. Everyone who was even remotely kind to him always ended up hurt. Like John.

Shit, the sniper must have been one of Moriarty's, which meant his survival was no longer a secret. That in turn meant that John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade were all in danger. Sherlock turned back hesitantly to look at Felix's body, the blood pooling around him, still oozing out of the bullet wound in his left shoulder. Wasn't the left shoulder where John got shot in Afghanistan? Sherlock's stomach dropped. He was killed by a sniper as… a threat? No, this wasn't a threat, or a warning, it was a promise. Look what happens to your friends, Sherlock. That will be John soon, Sherlock heard his sing-song voice clearly, as if the consulting criminal were in the room, standing right next to him.

He went into the kitchen and washed the blood off his hands, then changed his clothes. He was going back to London ASAP, it was time for a reunion with his brother.

Absolutely awful, am I right? This is the furthest away from 'garbage' I think I can get it though (It's un-BETA'd as I said before as well). And don't worry, Sherlock isn't going to get arrested for killing Felix, he would've taken preventative measures, I just can't be bothered writing them in because I'm tired and you'd get bored, so use your imagination. :)