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Good bye John, he said and for the first time ever John could hear Sherlock's voice thick with tears.

The demon lay dead on the roof and the angle flung himself off the edge hurdling towards the ordinary people. But he couldn't fly; he twisted and struggled against the air like a bird with a broken wing. He fell from what seemed to be the heavens and for what seemed to be ages until he hit the street with a sickening crack!

John screamed but nothing came out, he took off in a sprint towards his friend but the distance got farther and farther it felt as if he were moving backwards. But he could see the crumbled form of Sherlock perfectly , his hallo shattered upon the ground and leaked gold that turned crimson; the blood pooled by johns feet as it flooded the road in brilliant streaks of red that went on for miles in every direction. Then a mob of people crowded the angle and called him a man, claiming he couldn't fly, he was a fraud they shouted. Can't you see his wings! Why didn't he just fly? Why did he have to fall?

He wasn't a sham like they said John knew he wasn't, he wasn't just an ordinary boy trying on cleverly made wings overly zealous to show them off until he flew to high. The wax didn't melt; they weren't fake. He wasn't just an ordinary fool, he was an extraordinary man. But why did he do it! Why didn't he fly! The word burned hot in the walls of his mind, first as a whisper then it was shouting until it was a terrifying crescendo of WHY! But surely Sherlock couldn't hear him over the people and the screaming, he had to get to him, to ask him. But he was moving further away, he got to his knees trying to crawl from the invisible force pulling him back. He scraped his fingernails along the ground and shouted "But he's my friend!" But the people's lies and the 'whys' just got louder and louder so no one could hear him.

John woke with a start, breathing hard and drenched in sweat. When having a nightmare the most terrifying part is when you believe what's happening is actually true, but most of the time one has the good fortune and the relief to wake up knowing it was just the twisted product of their subconscious. John woke up with the reality that he was alone in his flat, and his best friend was dead. He got up and stretched out his sore muscles.

I could use a walk. He decided not caring to stay alone in the dusty room all day. John pulled on his jacket and as a last minute decision stuck Sherlock's scarf in the pocket of it. The air was thick and the pavement damp from the rain the previous night. He tried to ignore the newspaper stands, with the slander and fallacies strewn across the front pages. From Hero To Sham The 'Great Detective' Commits Suicide. John tried to ignore the whispers and chatter as people gossiped on the corners. He tries to ignore all of it and does a pretty damn good job until he hears something that makes his blood boil. Two gent's were standing by a newspaper dispenser when he heard one of them say,

"Yeah I knew him; I met him a few times." John stopped and against his better judgment he turned around and confronted the sod.

"Excuse me, what did you just say?" The man mistook this for curiosity and thought he was impressed, so he answered with his chest puffed out and a slimy grin on his face.

"The fake detective in the newspapers, the one that offed himself, I knew him"

"No you didn't!" John laughed furiously, "You can say whatever the hell you want too about him, it's all rubbish but go ahead, a sham a freak a fraud, you tell everyone and believe whatever the hell you want about him, but how dare you! How dare you say you knew him, how dare you even entertain the idea you knew anything about him. No one truly knew that man, he was far more complex and brilliant and…good…for anyone to truly know him. Until you have lived his life and seen through his eye you will never have had the honor of knowing that man that was worth ten times what you'll ever be." The men just gawked at him in shock, and he took off before they had time to be offended, not that he cared either way.

John shoved his hand in his pocket and grabbed on to the scarf with all his strength, his knuckles turning white around it. He walked in this fashion all the way to 221b and as if on auto pilot he didn't even remember how he got back. John let out a shaky breathe that seemed to be swallowed by the thick tainted smog around him. In that moment standing in front of the door he came to the chilling realization, there was nothing else. Not behind the door and not outside of it that he wanted. There was nothing left. And it was a humbling and devastating thought. That life was full, over flooding, teeming over the edge…with emptiness. He wanted to scream and he wanted to cry; but there was no point, no one would hear him, for the world was asleep, when it used to be so alive, a battlefield of terrors and wonders and adventures. Yes he wanted to curse and fall to his knees, but there was no point, he'd just keep falling through the emptiness, he could shred his dignity and beg till he was blue in the face but it wouldn't change a thing. He'd still be gone. So instead John opened the door, and then froze to his spot.

"Hello John, I believe you have my scarf"

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I know this chapter was little dull but I promise it will get better. Please review and let me know what you think. Thanks