House sits at his piano, stroking the keys delicately as they skim along the black sharps, but he's still unwilling to play. There's nothing to play. No reason to play. No one to listen, but the longer he waits, the clearer her fading image comes to his mind.
Takes a drink.
He tosses his cane across the room, watching it crash a lamp to the ground. The lighting has dimmed. Adjusting his position, he begins the composition he wrote at age twelve. It's calm and natural, but unfinished. Like her.
He recalls the fitting addition Dim Wit had effortlessly played when House had finished his part. An hour later, he was in the office with her.
"Well, they're engaged." he hears Wilson's voice.
Takes a drink.
The melody changes. Pressing the pedal, he molds the chords together as his hands shift to the right. The tone is deep, the music is louder, his breathing heavier as his jaw locks with frustration punishing the keys.
"I miss the puzzles. I don't miss you."
Takes a drink.
He never eases the pressure on the pedal. The next round is a compilation of dissonance and irritance dedicated to them, the end, and their new level of happiness in their new downtown apartment.
The bench scrapes across the hardwood floor as he scoots backwards to stand, giving him more power to continue the beating. It's instrumental anarchy. A shot of pain ripples through his thigh, but he ignores it, allowing the throb to scream through the chords in an empty room.
Face red, veins pulsating at the temples, he repeatedly plays the same jarring, inharmonious chord.
Pound. Pound. Fist.
Takes a drink. Downs the rest.
He limps to the couch, staring down at his feet.
"This is ridiculous," he says under his breath. He spots the wireless phone charger with no phone and scans the area. He looks behind the pillows, tossing them to the ground, then reaches between the cushions and pulls out a vicodin, a penny, and then the phone.
He remembers her number. With a sigh, he dials: "The number you have reached has currently been disconnected."
Pft. Honestly, would he ever do this again later?
He takes a seat back at his piano, throws back a vicodin, and pours another drink.