Hi guys! This is my first story from Sherlock's perspective. Let me know what you think :)

Sherlock and John walked through the crowd that was forming along the police tape at the edge of the sidewalk. Vultures they were, Sherlock mused, looking for any scrap of information they could find. Which, of course, was nothing; the police tape was several feet from the large home and the crime scene was inside the house. John mentioned something about how famous the victim of this crime was; he said something about it being a famous singer, though it wasn't someone Sherlock had ever heard of. That's why John wasn't able to maximize his full brain potential; he was too busy filling his head with useless knowledge like who was famous. Sherlock didn't waste time filling his head with such nonsense.

Sherlock walked through the puddles on the sidewalk and pulled up the police tape, crouching under it, holding it a second behind him for John to walk through. He walked up the steps of the home and into the open door. Several people were already working in the immaculate living room of the deceased celebrity. It was an unusually large amount of people and Sherlock was not particularly pleased about this; the less people there were around the better. Too many people meant too many stupid theories filling his mind up with nonsense; not that he would be swayed by their ridiculous theories but it made it hard to think with that much stupid floating through the air. He would just have to do his best on this one.

Sherlock walked up to Lestrade as John went on to the body in the corner of the room that was mostly obscured by the amount of people in the room. Lestrade seemed pleased to have him here as he caught sight of him. "Ah, Sherlock, glad you're here" he said.

"What have you gotten so far?" Sherlock asked, impatient to get to work.

"Well, it appears to be a suicide" Lestrade said, "He was obviously shot through the mouth and his fingerprints are on the gun that was found just next to his body. His family claims that there is no way that he committed suicide. Not an uncommon plea, but this time they have something; the door appeared to have been forced open last night. Nothing was taken, and there are no other signs that someone else was ever here except for a set of foot partial footprints in the back garden. They don't match the size of the footprints of anyone in the house. Hopefully you can shed some light on it for us."

"No doubt I can" Sherlock said confidently as he turned away from Lestrade and went to the back corner of the room where the body lay by the fireplace. He was sure that no one had even touched on what was really going on here; if they did then he wouldn't be here.

The forensics people moved aside slightly as Sherlock walked over and Sherlock saw John was already examining the body. His body was obscuring the top half of the man, as he examined the no doubt badly damaged head of the victim. John looked over his shoulder, obviously sensing that Sherlock was there and he moved to the side so that Sherlock could do his examination.

But when John moved and Sherlock caught sight of the man lying on the floor, he knew that his eyes deceived him. No, it couldn't be him, it was absolutely impossible. He was dead, long dead, as he had seen with his own eyes. Sherlock rubbed his eyes in an effort to make the young man's image before him change, but when he looked again he still saw the same thing. His mind was surely betraying him….how was this possible?

Much to Sherlock's dismay, his body began to betray him as well. He could hear John's voice distantly call his name, but he found that he couldn't answer him. His mind began to feel unclear, and his vision was getting black at the corners. He felt dizzy and entirely too hot. He tried to tear off his coat but found that his body didn't answer his commands. He was frozen.

He just continued to stare at the man that lay on the ground before him until the scene around him changed around him. No longer was he standing in the living room of a rich and prominent young man, surrounded by police….

The roof….the wind was blowing coldly around him and it was silent. Except for him….

Sherlock's heartbeat loudly against his chest and he felt a pounding in his head. His stomach was churning as Moriarty reached out and clasped his hand with his cold one. It felt like icy steel in his own. The words echoed back in his head, as they had done a thousand times.

"As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends, you've got a way out"

He hesitated, just for a second, but it was enough, "Well, good luck with that" he said, and in the next second he had place a gun inside his mouth and shot himself. Sherlock felt himself go weak. He felt dizzy, disoriented as he looked at Moriarty's body on the ground before him, blood pouring from his head. This couldn't be…..it simply couldn't.

His vision blackened around the edges but he forced himself to stay conscious. The weight of what he had to do fell on him like a ton of bricks and made it difficult to breathe. John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade…..he had to jump…..falling, falling, falling…

"Sherlock! Hey, are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost" John's voice called out to him.

Sherlock blinked quickly and suddenly he wasn't on top of 's anymore, he wasn't with Moriarty; he was at a crime scene, with John and Lestrade. Sherlock looked down at the dead man lying at his feet; he wasn't Moriarty, of course. Moriarty had been dead for over three years now. The man laying here was a totally different person. Sure, he resembled Moriarty in some ways, he was dressed similarly to him, but there was no reason his mind should have perceived him as Moriarty. It was….illogical.

Sherlock felt shaky on his feet. He was vaguely aware that people were staring at him. He wondered what he had done or said that attracted their attention. One second he was fine and the next he was…..seeing things? Surely that wasn't what had happened, and yet, what other explanation was there? He had clearly just seen something that wasn't there. Sherlock had never in his life had something like this happen and it made him…..uncomfortable. Extremely uncomfortable.

"Sherlock, hey, you're freaking me out, say something" John said. He was whispering it to Sherlock, no doubt to be kept out of hearing range of the others that were now staring in his direction. Sherlock's ears were ringing and his equilibrium was off.

"Excuse me" Sherlock said before pushing past officers in the living room and walking out of the house. He walked out the front door of the house and then around to side of the building, away from the crowds. He didn't understand what was happening and he couldn't allow anyone to see him like this. He leaned against the wall and then sank down to a sitting position. He was warm, sweating even, and he ripped his scarf off in a fit, throwing it down on the ground and opening the collar of his coat. He put his head down slightly and began to breathe deeply the cold morning air. Soon, the blackness at the edges of his vision was starting to fade away.

"Sherlock, are you okay?"

Oh God, John followed him of course. He knew that he shouldn't be surprised. John was always sticking his nose in his business when it didn't concern him. He wished that he would just leave.

"I am fine, John. Go back inside" Sherlock said waving him off. John, stubborn as ever wouldn't leave. Instead he crouched down on the ground so that he was at eye level with Sherlock. "Get out of here John" he snapped.

John was not to be deterred. " I'm not stupid, Sherlock" he said

"Really?" Sherlock asked, raising his eyebrows. Maybe if he insulted John he would get mad and leave. That usually worked; he angered quickly.

John fixed him with a hard stare but ignored the remark. " You're pale as a sheet, sweating, and you were just standing there, staring at nothing for like two minutes. Are you getting sick or something? "

Sherlock scowled. "Of course not" he snapped. "Just needed some fresh air. It was rather stuffy in that house. Too many idiotic people" He maintained his deep breathing, making sure that it was not obvious to John. He was not ill and did not want any more attention brought on him.

"You can tell me, if-" John started, but Sherlock cut him off.

"I don't need to tell you anything John" Sherlock said, getting to his feet. He felt slightly off balance at the movement, but quickly recovered. "I'm going back to work" he said. "You might want to do the same. Make some use of yourself and stop standing around prattling like an old woman." And with that he pushed past John and went back into the house. John didn't immediately follow him; good. Maybe if he was angry he would leave Sherlock alone. What had happened was simply a mistake, his body doing something strange. It wasn't going to happen again and he wasn't going to discuss it.