Black alert. Attention, this hospital is now under Black Alert. All personnel are to report to their designated stations.

The monotone prerecorded voice came out of the hospital intercom and fed into the offices and hallways. That same announcement had been made so many times everyone knew the instructions by rote. The drills happened far too often. Over the last few months they had become an almost daily occurrence. Did anyone else hear that emergency announcement or was it just the refrigerator running?

A security leak from somewhere within the top levels of the government An unforgivable error on the part of the greatest country in the world. No one had claimed responsibility. It wouldn't make any difference. Someone with a lot of power had made a very big mistake and a the rest of the world was paying for it.

The announcement came over the intercom again. "Black alert. Attention..." Two months ago, people still panicked when they heard those words. Black alert, the worst of the worst. Dire emergency. Known bomb threat. Terrorist attack. Impending doom. People were no longer afraid. The world had moved past panic. An almost universal numbness had settled over the human race.

When he let himself think about it at all, Wilson wondered why he still continued to treat patients, why the patients had kept coming to appointments A few days wouldn't make a difference either way. Everyone had said their goodbyes. The whole world was just waiting by the bedside, now. It was hard to muster up tears anymore. It'll all be over, soon. It's out of our hands, now.

Once upon a time, he had been the last stop before the release of hope. He had comforted people for whom aggressive treatment was no longer worth the trouble. He had learned how to make dying seem like the best case scenario. Now that everyone was facing death, he wondered why people had been so impressed with that talent. Of course death was the better option. Look at what living had to offer.

"Stop acting like you don't hear that." House turned towards Wilson. He was standing in the doorway leading out to the balcony, watching the few people who still managed some kind semblance of emotion at the announcement of another crisis situation.

"Would you prefer I gnash my teeth and rend my garments? Not really worth the effort, is it?"

"No, it's not. Are you going to go out there and see if there's anyway you can aid in the exercise in futility?"

"No." Wilson stood and walked over to stand next to House. They watched the activity outside in silence for a few seconds. "I don't want to help anymore. I don't see the point."

The last traces of youth had faded from Wilson's demeanor. His jagged innocence that had intrigued and bothered House since the first time they had met had vanished. Wilson had lost that ability to believe, even when all facts pointed toward belief being a fool's game. House had spent years trying to kill that spark. This brutal death of faith could not have been what he had in mind.

"You're worse than I am," House said.

The look in Wilson's eyes wasn't even resignation. Resignation would've at least registered as lack of emotion. Wilson looked as if he was without sensation of any sort. "You've had a longer time to accept your mortality. To lose the last bits of hope. What have I had? Two months? Not even that. Sorry if I'm doing it wrong."

The windows rattled as the building quaked. House lost his footing and fell against Wilson. "That's never happened before." He steadied himself, but one hand continued to rest against Wilson's shoulder.

"Maybe we'll get to lucky and die."

Another wave rattled through the building. House tightened his grip on Wilson's shoulder. Wilson reached up and covered House's hand with his own.

"If you're not going out there to help, we should take cover."

"Don't you want to watch everything end? I would have thought you would." His voice was hollow, as if he thought he had to say that. It was in the script. A good actor doesn't abandon a play half-way through the second act just because he doesn't like the way the production is turning out.

"I'd rather not. I always thought I would, but now, it doesn't seem worth it." House put his hand on Wilson's arm. "I'm going to the tunnel."

"I think I'll just stay here."

"The elevators are bound to be out. I'll have to take the stairs. I can't make it down there without your help."

Wilson turned and glared at House. "What's come over you? When did you become so needy?"

"Yeah, I hate how when the world is ending cripples are forced to take the stairs. It really pisses me off."

"You know what I mean. You just asked me to help you down to the tunnel. You asked for help!" Wilson sounded closer to angry than he had sounded in weeks. "You want to run and hide. It won't matter where we are; we're not safer there than we are right here."

"No one knows what's going to happen. It might not be as bad as it looks."

"Wow," Wilson's shoulders shook with a silent chuckle. "You've got to be the only person in the world to become an optimist when faced with the apocalypse ."

"I love a challenge." House turned away from the window and made a couple of steps towards the door. Wilson didn't move. "Come on, Wilson. You're going to feel like such an ass if you stay up here and get yourself killed and tomorrow someone figures out how to solve this thing."

"Fine. We'll do it your way. No reason to change what's worked so well up until now."

The front stairway was clogged with people trodding down to the shelters in the hospital basement. House would have a hard enough time going down several flights of stairs without having to fight through a glut of humanity.

"Want to try the stairway in the S wing?" Wilson asked. "It's usually pretty uninhabited."

"Which makes no sense since it's a more direct shot to the tunnel."

"The tunnel isn't an approved shelter area. It's your idea of a good place to wait out the end of the world, that's why we're going there."

They had turned from the packed stairwell and were walking down the hallway towards the South stairs. "There's a break room with a TV and an entire wall of vending machines."

"There's no medical supplies. And no escape route other than to travel through the entire tunnel."

"As opposed to the sanctioned areas, which have so many escape options. We might as well have a wide variety of snacks to fill our final hours. If we don't die then at least we didn't waste a night crammed in the shelter with a few dozen frightened and angry people who are too stupid to realize that aspirin doesn't ease the headache that comes with the end of days.'

"It's not stupid. It's desperation. There is a difference. Everyone is powerless. There's nothing I can do. Not even you have a solution to this." Wilson opened the door to the stairwell.

"You underestimate yourself. You can keep me company. It's an honor I'd only bestow on my most trusted compatriot."

"I'm kind of surprised you didn't pick Cuddy. At least then you could've gotten laid."

"Cuddy went home to be with her family. You know that. Anyone that has anywhere else to go is already there. The only people left are people like us."

"People with nowhere else to go." He offered his arm to House who accepted the support as they began the arduous process of going down the stairs.

The shock waves were coming more often now, none of them stronger or more unnerving than the last. They were just periodic rattles, like thunder shaking the building to the foundation.

Two flights down and four to go, House was sweating from the exertion. Wilson wished there was another way to do this. He held House up, supporting both of their weights as they struggled down the stairs. "Do you want to rest?"

House winced; the pain had to be intense. "No, let's just get this over with."

They didn't speak until they got to the basement.

"I didn't think we were going to make it. Whatever's happening isn't like anything that's happened before."

"Dying in a stairwell isn't an option." House opened the door. The hallway was quiet, deserted. Everyone else must have been in the appointed meeting places. "Why do people insist on following rules in a time like this? We're the only ones out here."

"Admit it, you're glad."

"Maybe I wanted to be proven wrong about humans being too stupid to survive."

The tunnel was a few yards ahead, and the break room with the vending machines was another half of a football field away. "You need to rest. You can't make it all the way down there, not after that." Wilson nodded towards the stairs.

"I'll stop when we're where we need to be." He held out his arm and Wilson obligingly wrapped it around his shoulder. "It took something like this before we were able to admit I need you around."

"When did you admit that?"

"Just now, weren't you listening? Pay attention, you never know what kind of revelation I might provide next."

House was sweating now, the exertion showing in his arms and in the muscles on the back of his neck. They were almost to their destination. Every step felt like another weight had been added to his body. There's only so much a person can carry. If there had been an empty bed he would've taken advantage of it, let himself rest, maybe suggested Wilson push him the rest of the way. But there was no bed. Not nearby.

Wilson was holding House up now; there was no point in pretending otherwise. House's arm wrapped around Wilson's shoulder, Wilson held House up with one arm wrapped around his waist and another across his back. He imagined they looked like soldiers stumbling through enemy fire in a mad search for cover. House was wounded, in bad shape. He'd been hit, too, but it was just a flesh wound. Nothing to worry about. Dirt and gunpowder filled the air and stuck to their sweat damp bodies. Some trench battle during the first World War, the sort where the boys went in knowing they wouldn't survive. The whole world, soldiers in the war to end all wars.

"Just a few more steps," Wilson groaned. He wondered if the alert was over, if everyone had returned to their day and only he and House were still concerned for their immediate safety. Like those Japanese fighter pilots who hid out on remote islands until the 1970s because there was no one around to tell them the war was over. His mind was overrun with war metaphors this afternoon.

The break room was the most welcome oasis either of them could imagine. Wilson helped ease House down onto the worn out couch. The break rooms were all furnished with castoffs from family waiting rooms in the hospital. Faded from sunlight, or bent and cracked under the shifting weight of worry and anxiety. All the the pieces imbued with remnants of fear and grief and maybe even the occasional fragment of joy left by the people who had waited for news of their loved ones. House dropped onto that sofa, his face looking as if he had absorbed all of the pain felt by everyone to ever sit there.

"You want something to drink?" Wilson fished in his pocket for change, "Or chips or something?"

House nodded. He took his pills out of his pocket. He didn't wait for Wilson to count the change for the drink, just tossed the pills down his throat. The action made him gag. He bent forward and spit the pills back into his hand. "Fuck."

Wth a swooshing sound followed by a clunk a plastic bottle of water slid into the tray. Wilson picked it up and handed it to House. "Here."

Without a word, House took the bottle and swallowed the slick, wet pills.

"How much do you have? I mean, how long will your supply last?"

"If we're still alive in two days, I'm sending you to rob the pharmacy. You're not going anywhere until then. Turn on the TV, I wonder if there's any news."

In the last week broadcasts had become sporadic. Not just the news, what any channel might be running at any time was unpredictable. One channel had gone on automatic backup two days ago. The person to set it up so that the station's entire catalog was airing in random order. The station was fascinating. Rather like death must be, watching your life flash before your eyes. Except instead of family vacations and love affairs, life was episodes of the Oprah Winfrey Show and family-friendly sitcoms from the 60s to 90s. Several people had been found dead in front of their televisions after committing suicide while watching that channel. Most of the stations hadn't been on the air at all for some time. The remaining one or two that attempted to present the news were faced with the unreliability of the electric grid and the even less trustworthy news sources.

Static and test patterns, an episode of The Lucy Show-not I love Lucy, the later show, when she played a divorcee and her hair seemed to get stranger shades of orange with each passing season-flashed across the screen. In the upper numbers, the haven of religious broadcasters and foreign language channels, Wilson found what looked like a news program. The newscaster was hunched over the desk, his head in his hands. He looked like he was crying.

"Go back to Lucy," House said. Wilson nodded and flipped backwards through the channels until he found the sitcom.

The episode ended, a news magazine program about a murder in a small town began. There were no more commercials. Just an all you can stand buffet of the last 30 odd years of television's most random moments.

"Do you think this is it?" Wilson asked after they had both finished their snacks and had only the TV to occupy their minds.

"I don't know."

"I hope it is. I'm tired of thinking about all of the things I never did...never will do, now." The accused was led into the courtroom on the news program. "Anything you wish you'd done?"

"Everyone does. Talking about it isn't going to make it all right." House said. "It'll just make it hurt more, and I've got enough pain."

"Would you mind if I talked about it?"

"When we were upstairs you seemed pretty resigned. Why bother talking now?"

"I don't want to die alone," Wilson blurted out. After he said it, he felt-not better-but relieved. The way the murderer on the television said he'd felt when he'd admitted his guilt in court.

House raised an eyebrow, opened his mouth and then quickly shut it. Now was not the time for a smart ass remark. He moved across the couch and put his arm around Wilson's shoulder. Wilson relaxed against House, draped an arm across House's stomach. House rubbed his hand across Wilson's hair. This should have felt silly. Their arms wrapped around each other, the mingling of of the scents of their cologne and sweat and detergent. It should have been embarrassing . They were men, strong men who didn't ask for comfort.

"If you're alone, so am I."

Wilson sat up a bit and rested his head on House's shoulder. He took House's hand in his. "I hardly dared to even try to touch you, before this all started. When we first heard the news--I was so, shocked I guess, that I reached out for something to grab onto and the first thing I felt was your hand. So, I took it, and you didn't let go. Didn't shake me off. You held on as tight as I did."

"I know, one little end of the world and I become all soft and cuddly. If I wasn't already going to die I'd ask you to kill me now."

"Hmmph," Wilson laughed. "What would you do if I kissed you?" His mouth brushed against House's chin.

"Well," House tilted his head in thought, "it would depend on how good you are at it. If you're good, I'll kiss back. If you suck, I'll laugh at you and you'll spend the last few hours on earth depressed because all those women lied to you."

"Not worth the risk I guess. Besides, we might miss a very special episode of Maury if we start making out."

"Is this the acceptance part of grief? You were ready to jump off the roof a couple of hours ago."

"I guess it is. Even if this isn't the end, it won't make any difference. There's not much time left. Pretending isn't going to do any good."

"No," House agreed. "When I imagined how I would die, you were always there. You were left to drag yourself through life without me. It was always an empty and meaningless existence, eventually you died from loneliness."

"Funny, that's about how I saw it, too." Wilson said. "Except in my version I died from boredom. You've made my life much more interesting than it would've been if I'd never met you."

"You've made mine longer and much closer to happy than I deserved."

"No one deserves to be unhappy."

"Not even a couple of miserable bastards like us."

From somewhere even further underground than they were a quake rattled the walls, the television rocked and crashed onto the ground. House pulled Wilson against him, grabbed the back of Wilson's head and pressed their mouths together. Wilson leaned forward, fingers reaching for fabric or flesh to hold onto. The kiss was rough, desperate. Real desperation , the sort that one can only feel once in life. That unbelievable panic that can only end in death or the inability to ever feel fear again.

House dropped backwards onto the couch, pulling Wilson down on top of him. "Any last words?" He managed to fit the words in during a brief pause for breath.

Wilson pushed himself up on his hands and looked down at House. He smiled. "At least we'll never be alone again."