The heels of Cameron's black dress shoes clicked forcefully again and again on the warm concrete, black crickets and brown bugs hopping and scuttling out of the way. She was the sort of person to avoid stepping on the insects, no matter how much they bothered her with their high leaps at nothing and infernal noise at night, but Cameron wasn't paying any attention to them right now. In fact it was only after she stepped on one cricket that had not moved out of the way fast enough, the crunch of exoskeleton under rubber heel, that Cameron was brought back to reality and started to dig her car keys out of her purse.
Her mind had been racing the past few days, ever since the funeral was a certianty. It was almost a welcome change, much better than the numbness that had come over her mind when she had taken the now buried man as a patient...
"You can't take this case, Cameron," Foreman said, "You know you can't."
"But, I have to," she replied, her voice betraying her emotions. Although she looked cold and professional, dressed in her white, tailored lab jacket over black dress pants and a new grey sweater, her voice was heated and passionate, colored with all the feelings she tried to keep back.
"No, you don't."
"Foreman, you wouldn't understand."
"You would understand better than the rest of us."
Chase spoke the truth and they all knew it. Wilson, from his chair, turned to give Chase a look of warning, but the blond doctor was leaning against the counter, pouring a cup of stale coffee. Foreman, taking his arm off the white board stand and shaking his head, walked over and reached for Cameron's arm, which she snatched away. Whether from distaste or surprise no one knew, but with a firm hand, Cameron took the open file from where it had been laying on the table, snapped it shut, and walked out the door.
She could hear the mutterings of those who had gone to look over the rest of the headstones in the massive graveyard, behind one of the biggest churches she had ever seen. Cameron did not often attend church, so sitting through the service had been difficult. The preacher's voice was raspy and dry; Cameron wondered if he might not have a throat problem and had, in the middle of his speech of life and death, made a mental note to talk with the preacher about making an appointment with the clinic. She had drifted off into other thoughts, old memories concerning the man in the casket on the alter, and was not brought back into the moment until Wilson's hand let go of her own to go up and make the speech.
"There was nothing to describe-"
"-such a man as himself," Cameron said, interuppting Wilson. "I know. But I still want to be there."
"I didn't actually want to talk about that," Wilson answered, taking a seat beside Cameron on one of the plush faux leather squares that were supposed to be seats, leaning against the wall. "I wanted to talk about what Chase said, back in House's office."
"It doesn't bother me."
"Yes, it does."
Cameron looked at him, fixing her eyes onto his own and giving him her best glare of seriousness. She knew it was helpless, though, and Wilson's eyes just kept their lock on Cameron's, waiting until she was through trying to intimidate him to continue. Finally that moment came and Wilson resumed his thought.
"I know it bothers you because you are always stuck with the dying patient. It doesn't matter if that person means anything to you the moment you meet them because, in the end, when you are there with them while they pass on, it doesn't matter if you've known them all of their life or just a weeks. Most of the time, though, in your case, you've known them for a long time, been a part of their life, been-"
"Wilson, it doesn't bother me," Cameron interjected once more, cutting him off. "Like you've said, I've always been stuck with the dying patient. It's normal for me, now. It doesn't matter."
"How can death be normal?"
"I don't know, you tell me. You let your patients know how long they have and how much they should hope to get better. You work with death every day."
"Cameron, just because I give people 'the bad news' doesn't mean I understand death or how it can be normal. You've become accustomed to it, that's all. You should be, you're a doctor."
"Is this going anywhere, James?"
"I don't know, Allison, tell me."
The two doctors sat side by side for several more moments before Wilson got up, arranging his lab jacket so it fell in steady folds around his legs, putting his hands in the pockets. Cameron remained sitting, her hands clasped together a little too tightly to be comfortable, elbows resting on knees, nose pointed toward the ground at an invisible fixed spot in the blue tiles.
"Cameron, when you want to talk about it, let me know. I'm going to be here through the entire process, too. I just thought I would try to get what Chase said out of your head."
Wilson made to walk away, but turned back and looked over his shoulder, brown hair falling over his eyes. Cameron looked over at him, head still bowed over her folded hands.
"And I don't let patients measure the amount of hope they have to live, nor do I measure it for them. They just hope. That's sometimes enough."
As he walked away, Cameron muttered to herself, "But hope can't bring back the dead."
Cameron had been slightly annoyed at the rain that was falling that afternoon, pounding on the church roof, dripping from the shingles, pooling in the dips of imperfect concrete slabs on the sidewalk and pot holes in the parking lot. How dreary. The raindrops, Cuddy said to her quietly as they rose after Wilson's speech to leave the church, seemed to match the piano music note for note, tone for tone. Cameron resisted the urge to glare at her boss and instead gave a sharp nod she hoped would appease the distraught woman. Cuddy had been crying nearly the entire service and Cameron wondered brutally how she even dared wear mascara that wasn't water proof when she must have known she would be weeping for several hours on end. But wondering about Cuddy's mascara and choices for dress that morning (the black silk jacket and skirt set with thin grey lace and clear beads was much too dressy for a funeral, Cameron had thought upon seeing the Dean of Medicine get out of her car before the service) was the least of Cameron's troubles. Now she would have to go out in the rain herself, risking a cold.
"Cameron, what I said back there," Chase said as he got into the elevator with her and Foreman, all on their way down to the patient's room, "I didn't mean to say it."
"Yes you did."
"Foreman, stay out of it."
Cameron closed her eyes and tried to block out the two men bickering behind her. She didn't need any of that right now. Damn, how could she have convinced herself to go through with this? After all the hell she had given the rest of the team to be put on the case, after they had done so, she couldn't just back out. Sometimes she tried to be too brave and forgot about that little part of her that wanted to hide and forget anything was wrong with anyone. Forgetting about that part had gotten her into medical school, into the teaching hospital, onto the team. It had almost always done her good. But now she wanted to push the glowing elevator buttons on the side of the door that would take the lift right back upstairs and to her office.
"Did you hear him?"
"What? Excuse me, I didn't hear you," Cameron said, snapping out of her daze. Foreman's undescribable look made Cameron push that annoying, scared part out of her mind, hoping he didn't see what she had been thinking about doing the past minute.
"I apologized."
"Oh. You didn't have to, Chase."
"You know I had to."
"Yeah."
Cameron turned away. Ever since they had broken up, she really had nothing to say to him. When she looked at him, she felt nothing, thought nothing, and he could have been nonexistant for all she cared. An insult and apology didn't mean anything to her coming from him. Before Chase could open his mouth again, the doors to the elevator slid open and Cameron walked briskly down the hall, the feelings of doubt and fear creeping up on her again with every step she took toward her patient's room.
The rain had dimmed to a drizzle by the time everyone made it to the gravesite. A five minute walk to the plot of dirt and carved stone that was to be the patient's only physical mark to the outside world that he had ever existed. The now fairly wet funeral attendees stood around the grave, his very elderly parents sitting in folding chairs the church had so gracefully provided. Of course, they were crying, along with Wilson and Cuddy, the latter of which resembled a well dressed raccoon. Cameron had no tears to shed. Chase went to put his arm around her shoulders, but she shuffled to the other side of Foreman. She knew he didn't want to be there, either, and that made her feel a bit better. At least she wasn't the only one not currently mourning the loss of this man hidden away in the ebony box being lowered into the ground.
"There goes a good man," someone muttered.
"No," Cameron whispered to herself, Foreman catching what she said, "He wasn't a good man. He was a terrible man. He just did great things."
"Even the great things might not make up for the bad things he did," Foreman added.
Since the patient had rejected the liver transplant, there was no other option but to let him die. It had been a waste of time to get on the case, Cameron thought, standing outside the door to the room. There really were no other options. Without the liver, without the medication, without everything else the bitter man hooked up to all the machines rejected, there was nothing left to do but sit back and let him die.
"Did you just see him?" Wilson asked, approaching her. He had a plastic mug of coffee, complete with lid, in one hand, the crumbs of a sandwich he was wiping off on his lab jacket in the other hand. It was rare Wilson was not with the patient now, now that he had been given an even shorter time period in which to live. Wilson was almost always there.
Cameron nodded, feeling her throat close. Oh, no. She was going to cry. No, she couldn't, she wasn't going to, she wasn't going to show how much it all meant to her. Not after all the things she had denied, after all the lies she told. Wilson, watching Cameron's lined face smooth and crumple several times, put his coffee on the ground without a word and opened his arms. Enfolding Cameron, he held her close for several moments as she wept soundlessly into his chest before taking her to his office, leaving the fresh coffee behind to wait for a janitor to come across and toss out.
After the preacher said several more words about life and death, pretty much restating the philosophical nonsense the dead man would have laughed at in life, the small gathering dispursed and the rain stopped. Foreman, after a meaningful glance, squeezed her hand and left. She knew just where to find him if she needed to drink away any remaining pain she might have missed after crying her eyes out at the hospital, at home, and in her car. She might just see him later tonight. Wilson patted Cameron on the arm and she patted his hand back. He had gotten the invitation to go drinking and drown away the sorrow (or perhaps usher in a new era of the hospital without the shadowy madman lurking down every hallway) and Cameron dimly wondered if he would take Foreman up on the offer. Wilson took Cuddy's elbow, the doctors lapsing into silence, and the two left for the parking lot. Chase was among those searching for family and friends in the graveyard, reading off the names of those deceased he might have known to himself before passing onto the next granite or marble marker.
"Here lies-"
"Gregory House," Cameron said, holding his hand as the man she respected, hated, loathed and loved, started his descent into unconsciousness. He would never open his eyes again once he closed them for any longer than it took to blink, the eyes yellow from jaundice. His skin matched the eyes, making those blue eyes grey and weary with suffering. The Vicodin had shot his liver and, without a new one, trying to survive with what he had and refusing any treatment, he was going to die within hours, lapse into a coma within half that time, passing out in minutes. That's all Cameron had: minutes.
"What do you want?" House asked, trying to sound gruff but failing as badly as Cameron was at trying to hold the tears back.
"I want to tell you everything."
"What is there left to tell? If it's that you love me, I already know."
"It's not that."
"If it's that you hate me, I already know that, too."
Cameron smiled despite her current condition because he did, too. His hand twitched in hers.
"If I say my leg hurts more than the rest of me, will you give me more painkiller?"
"No, House," Cuddy said, who was standing behind Cameron's chair. "No more painkiller. That's what is causing this in the first place."
"Yeah, I could have died of a heart attack or brain injury instead of a destroyed liver. Bummer, huh?"
"You could have lived a little longer," Wilson said, sitting across from Cameron in the chair he had nearly become a part of the past few days.
"Who wants to live a long life in pain?" House asked, a feeble smile coming over his face again, "A short life pain free is the way to go, especially surrounded by doctors."
"Friends, Greg," Wilson corrected. "Some aren't as lucky."
"I agree," House said, causing Cuddy to choke back a sob. It was clear House was fading fast and it was a matter of moments before he would be unable to respond to anything they said, falling into a sleep from which matters would be out of their hands. Cuddy had consulted the rest of the team on, once House was 'out of it,' transplanting a new liver into the arrogant doctor, but Wilson had been strongly opposed. If House's wishes were disrespected, they would have James Wilson to go through, a truly loyal friend to the end.
As House took one more glance around the room, he made direct eye contact with Cameron and squeezed her hand uncharacteristically. Cameron leaned in and, as the alarms went off and Cuddy turned the monitors and their noise down, kissed House's hand as his eyes fixed on the ceiling before drifting off.
Chase and Foreman, who were in the shadows of the doorway, bowed their heads and left the room along with Cuddy, who was now crying steadily into a paper napkin that had been resting beside the pitcher of nearly melted ice chips. Cameron, looking at Wilson and getting the message his watery eyes were sending, stood up, releasing House's hand. Walking around the bed, she hugged Wilson's shoulders, pressing her cheek into his neck, sighing deeply as the tears ran down her face. She then left House and his best friend alone, Wilson waiting for the moment House passed on, and not before, to leave the room. Cameron made it all the way to her office and then to her car before she started to sob again.
With a sigh, Cameron reread the words on House's headstone before walking out of the graveyard. She knew she would be back with Wilson sometime, probably with flowers, probably in the snow, but for now she could leave and be assured she wasn't going to have to come back for at least a month. That was how long she bet it would take anyone from the team to return to House's grave, whether out of anger or guilt she did not know. For now, though, the rain had stopped and the concrete of the sidewalk was warm from the late September sun beating down upon the scene below it. The small crickets talked amongst one another, aware for a brief moment one of their own had just left them, before hopping away into the grass.