Secret Door Chapter 1: What you Want, a sherlock fanfic

This is right after Sherlock's suicide. I want to preface this by saying that I mean no disrespect or misrepresentation of mental illness or those that have it and if you are offended by any of this or if I make a factual error, please call me out on it so I can fix it/apologize. I highly recommend that you listen to the songs as your read these, but obviously I have no way of tracking you down and forcing you to do so. But really. please. It improves the impact I promise. I will be posting Youtube links for all of them. I hope you enjoy! watch?v=wVWazHTunSI

What You Want

John had been at the station for hours. If the worried expression Lestrade kept shooting him was any indication, the inspector was keeping him there on purpose in order to keep an eye on him. He should have complained, should have wanted to go home. But home wasn't really home anymore was it? Sherlock was gone. He had tried to take down Moriarty alone, just like he did everything else and now he was gone. He'd always done what he wanted, Sherlock.

Do what you, what you want
If you have a dream for better
Do what you, what you want
'til you don't want it anymore (remember who you really are)

He sat there, retreating into himself farther and farther, answering questions in a robotic, reflexive manner. Soon enough Mrs. Hudson arrived, sobbing heavily. He stood as she approached, allowing her to collapse in his arms, patting her back gently as she cried into his shoulder.

"Are you done here, love?" she asked. "I don't want to go home alone." She looked at him hopefully, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. Did he want to go back to the place where his life had started over now that it had been turned upside down again? No. but he couldn't deny Mrs. Hudson's request. With a huge sigh he collected his coat and guided the older woman out the door.

In the cab, Mrs. Hudson continued to sniff. After a minute she reached over and patted John's hand, which lay flat against the car seat. He almost pulled away from the touch, as it began to anchor him to the realities of the day, but he didn't want to hurt Mrs. Hudson's feelings so he allowed it, desperately trying to not fall apart in the cab.

Do what you, what you want
Your world's closing in on you now (it isn't over)
Stand and face the unknown (got to remember who you really are)

Every heart in my hands
Like a pale reflection

The door to the flat closed with a soft click behind him. Sherlock usually slammed it, he thought and that was it. He didn't know if it was thinking about him while in the flat or thinking about him at all in such a normal, everyday way but that was it. With a soft groan he dropped to the floor on his knees. He tried to breath but he couldn't manage to completely inflate his lungs so he settled for quick shallow breaths that made him light headed. He couldn't think, or move. The only thing he seemed to be aware of was that most of him was gone and what was left hurt. The remaining bits of John Watson had collected in his chest, settled there heavily, and throbbed. He dropped the rest of the way to the floor.

Hello, hello, remember me?
I'm everything you can't control
Somewhere beyond the pain
There must be a way to believe
We can break through

He had no concept of how long he sat there, allowing the pain to fade to a dull pulse over his heart, replaying the moment over and over again. Why did he do it? How could he just…give up like that? How could he leave him here like this? Without consciously deciding to, he quickly stood, walking over to the couch where the stained, worn Union Jack throw pillow lay. He picked it up, and stared at it for a few seconds, running a shaking hand down the faded flag pattern. As he went to toss it back on the couch a sent hit his nostrils; Cigarette smoke, rosin, and a hint of washing powder.

John stomped into the living room, waving the empty box about.

"did you know we were out?" he demanded of Sherlock, who lay on the couch, eyes closed, toying with his violin bow.

"Of what, John?" he said calmly, which only irritated John farther.

"The washing powder, you git!" he said.

Sherlock's bright blue eyes flew open and fixed on John. At the sight of his florid, angry face, the other man grinned at John. Most of his anger drained away instantly but he retained enough of it to snatch the pillow from beneath Sherlock's head and smacked him in the face with it before heading out to get more washing powder.

Do what you, what you want
You don't have to lay your life down (it isn't over)
Do what you, what you want
'til you find what you're looking for (got to remember who you really are)

But every hour slipping by
Screams that I have failed you

With an anguished shout, he threw the pillow across the room, knocking over a lamp. He snatched the three other pillows that sat on the couch, throwing them about the room in turn, managing to knock over a tea cup, an ash tray, and a vase. That done, he began to search for other things to throw. Books, cups, and newspapers became the next victims of his rage then he began flipping furniture. The couch, which was old and heavy took some doing but when it finally lay, cushions down on the rug he ran began to run out of steam.

Hello, hello, remember me?
I'm everything you can't control
Somewhere beyond the pain
There must be a way to believe

With his back pressed against the bottom of the couch and his head on his knees, the tears that had refused to fall until now came pouring down his face.

"Why?" he gasped hoarsely into the empty room. "How could you leave me like this?"

Somewhere within the confines of his own mind, Sherlock's voice echoed.

"It was the only way, John." It said.

Wonderful. Now he was hearing voices. His sobs began afresh and he curled up on the cold floor. He remained there, sobbing, until the sun rose.

There's still time
Close your eyes
Only love will guide you home
Tear down the walls and free your soul
'Til we crash
We're forever spiraling
Down, down, down, down