A/N: This is the Pro- Logue to Dragon
Disclaimer: I do NOT OWN HOUSE
One Hundred Minutes
He sat staring at the amber liquid in the glass, his attention going from the glass to the handful of pills in his hand. Should he? God knows he wanted to, but was it fair to do to Wilson. Maybe Wilson would understand. Probably not… He would just blow his head off but when he went to his apartment to get his gun from its hiding place, it was missing. He had a good idea where it had gone. He was too impatient to hang himself, and besides who wants to die in all that pain. He had also looked for his little metal box of injectable goodies but that was gone too. So pills it was. It was fitting somehow that it should be pills, after all wasn't he an addict? He had been fortunate that Wilson had managed to miss a few of his stashes of vicodin, so here he sat with his Maker's Mark and about a hundred vicodin. It was getting dark and cold in his apartment, the power was off, and the sun was going down, but he liked it. It felt right; that this is where he should be. Wilson was still at work, he had an emergency board meeting at seven. House had plenty of time to do what he needed, he just wasn't sure he should. A small voice said he should call Nolan, but he knew if he did it would mean being back in the hospital and he refused to ever go there again. He settled on going ahead with it, and began taking the pills three and four at a time. He washed, handful after handful, down with the Maker's Mark. He had the foresight to steal some zofran and took that before he started, it kept the nausea at bay. He was feeling no pain, he felt so good he had missed that feeling, that blissful absence of pain. He put his iPod on and lay down on the couch, and enjoyed the ride…he lost consciousness in twenty minutes. In thirty minutes, his body tried to expel the poisons in his stomach, but nothing came up. In sixty minutes, he slipped into a coma. In ninety minutes, he stopped breathing… In one hundred minutes… Gregory John House… was dead.