See? I'm not dead.

Yet.

Anyway, this popped into my head in that most inspirational of places, the shower. And then I forgot about it for most of the day. *headdesk*

Happily, it came back on its own instead of me having to try and fail to hunt it down.

The title is from the song by the same name by JT Hodges. It's pretty much the soundtrack to this story as far as Shawn's concerned. Go find it and die like I did.

Also, I don't own the song or the show or much of anything really. Sad, but true.

Oh, and it gets a bit squicky in here. You've been warned.

Flailed over by Lu. And the summary? All hers. The bitch.

(Thanks, luv. 3)

Shawn enters the building alone.

He sent Gus to park the car, not sure of what they'd find inside, but not wanting Gus to have to deal with it if it's bad. Gus knows him well enough not to argue. He'll take his time finding a very good spot, and not just because it's a company car and a less than desirable neighborhood.

He greets and acknowledges the officers between the sidewalk and the door of the apartment, but he knows before he reaches the fourth floor landing that giving Gus an errand was the right choice.

Lassie's face only confirms the news, grim and set in that determined scowl that promises someone will pay for what's behind the door.

Shawn opens his mouth to say something, an apology probably, but Lassie's not the one that needs it and he doesn't want to hear it either, so Shawn shuts his mouth without saying anything.

"Go inside, Spencer."

Shawn's head tilts.

"What?"

"Go inside. You need to see this."

Something is off about Lassie's voice. Shawn can't quite figure out what it is, but he knows it's there.

Before he can figure out this mystery another presents itself when the door opens.

"Dad?"

"Go inside, Shawn," his father says. His face is grim too, his expression that one that says he's trying to teach Shawn something even if he doesn't enjoy doing so.

Shawn looks between them, then takes a step back.

"No. I don't—"

"Go inside, Mr. Spencer."

He whirls and finds Chief blocking his exit, a uniform on either side to ensure he can't slip past. She's got her arms crossed over her chest and her look is stern and unrelenting. She's not going to move until he does as she's ordered.

He swallows, looking between them all, but his usual witty banter has deserted him.

"Shawn," one of the officers says, stepping forward, but not enough to provide an opening. It's Buzz and even the happy-go-lucky patrolman is stone-faced in the wake of what lies on the other side of that door.

"Go inside," he says. It's gentle and tentative, as Buzz's words to Shawn usually are when he's trying to be a cop, but Shawn still can't deny it.

His breathing quickens and he steps back until he's up against the wall. The hallway feels like it's shrinking, the cops—past and present—getting closer, looming over him and insistently looking at him, waiting for him to cave.

"I don't want to," he admits, his voice tiny and afraid. He hates it, hates how young he sounds, but he can't change it. "Dad," he says, locking gazes with his father. "I don't want to go in- inside."

His voice cracks on the last word and he looks down, ashamed. He's not a cop, not one of them, he doesn't have what it takes to be them and he's done playing games.

He just wants to go home.

Lassiter pushes the door open and Shawn throws up an arm to block his view, panting harshly in anticipation and terror.

He does not want to go through that door.

But he can't help it.

His traitorous feet step forward of their own will, and attempts to turn back or grab something are futile. His fingers slip, his body won't turn, he can't do anything but move forward.

Their voices surround him, whispering, repeating over and over, "Go inside, Shawn. You need to see this. Go inside."

He snags his father's arm and holds tight, daring to look up at his dad's face, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"I don't want to go inside, Dad," he pleads. "Please don't make me. I don't want to see!"

His father's voice is hard, but not without mercy—or is it pity?—as he says, "You need to, Shawn. You need to see."

"No! No, wait!" He's being pushed now, his feet back under his control, but no match against the tide at his back as he's propelled into the room.

The door is suddenly shut behind him, sturdy and unyielding at his back, though he presses into it anyway.

His eyes are shut, head turned down, gasping for breath as he prays to a God he doesn't know if he believes in to spare him the sight before him.

"Shawn?"

A soft voice and a touch on his arm and his eyes pop open and look up.

"Juliet?"

Sounds are muted here, like he's hearing them underwater.

The tinkle of a music box comes from across the room and a shudder runs over his skin from head to toe as his eyes close again.

"I can't do it, Jules. I'm sorry. I c—" He stops, swallowing and sucking a breath, then letting it out again slowly. "I just can't."

Her fingers slip into his and she squeezes.

When he looks up again she's smiling sadly.

"You have to," she says simply and walks backward, their arms coming up, forming a line—a tow line—between them as she keeps pulling.

He fights it, but she's too strong and all too soon he's pulled away from the door.

"No," he begs, shameless as he pleads for his freedom—his sanity. "Please, Jules. Don't make me—" The fingers of his free hand claw and pry at hers, but they're iron shackles and he can't budge them a fraction of an inch.

"You need to see, Shawn. You need to see." That's all she'll say aloud, though her eyes apologize for every step.

Then they're there, at the bed across the room. The music box sits on the nightstand and plays, a requiem for the owner.

Shawn's eyes are on the ground, but it doesn't matter. There's blood there too.

A puddle of it, a steady drip providing a percussion accompaniment to the music box's melody.

He can't help his actions now. He's lost control again and he can't even speak his denials, his pleas.

All he can do is watch, his gaze following the dripping blood up to the top of the bed, the red garish against the bright pinks and purples. There's a pool there too, feeding the ceaseless fall that sounds like a drum now, or footsteps of some giant stalking steadily toward him. They echo in his ears and he wants to cover them, to block it out, but he can't.

All he can do is look.

Look at the blood. At the stuffed animals, ponies and bears and cats cuddled in a nest around their owner, like pups huddling around their mother, waiting for her to wake up again.

She'll never wake up again. Her sightless eyes tell him that.

So does the gaping hole that used to be her throat.

Now it's just the escape route for her blood, the spring feeding the bloody fall that drips endlessly, accusingly in his ears.

drip...drip...drip...

Oh God.

He did this.

He did this to her.

This is all his fault.

If he had—

But he didn't.

He didn't, and now she's dead.

"I'm sorry," he rasps out. His legs go numb and he falls to the floor, landing in the puddle with a sickening splash.

He reaches for her hand on the bed, grasping it and taking it in his own. He can't help but notice how small it is.

"I'm sorry," he repeats. It doesn't matter; she can't hear him.

But he can't stop saying it.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." His head falls forward and he can feel the blood soaking into his jeans, into his sleeves where his arms have fallen into the puddle on the bed.

It mixes with his tears and he chokes on a sob.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'msorryI'msorryI'msorryi'msorryi'msorryi'msorry—"

And then the hand in his convulses, grabbing his wrist in a painful grip and startling him into a gasp as he rears back.

Her eyes aren't sightless or unfocused now, though her throat is still a mess of torn flesh and blood.

She stares at him as he pants for air.

"I'm sorry," he says one last time.

"You should be," she says. "You should be."

And that's when he wakes up.

Review, plz & thx.