My Hell, a house, m.d. fanfic

My Hell

A/N: This is an exploration of some of House's deepest fears through a nightmare he has following his failed confrontation with Lisa Cuddy in the park (see 'My Wilson'). If House (or any of the other characters, for that matter) seems a little out of character in his nightmare remember that the way we are in our dreams isn't always the way we are in real life. In our dreams we can say and do things we would be too inhibited to do otherwise. That being said, I will do my best to preserve the integrity of the characters as much as I can. Warning: This story involves adult issues that involve violence (Abuse), sexuality and strong language. Reader Discretion is advised.

I walk into the loft ahead of Wilson, who shuts the door behind us. Just an hour before, I was considering ending my own life. Soul-sick, all I wanted was an end to the heartache I felt. I had twenty Percocet tablets in my jacket pocket that I had bought illegally, prepared to destroy nearly eight months of sobriety by taking a couple, or possibly all of them to kill the pain I was in, both physically and emotionally. I had already gotten myself drunk, definitely a step back to the dark side. Some compulsion, however, had led me to call my psychiatrist before I took the pills. It was probably the instinct of self-preservation kicking in.

Dr. Nolan succeeded in convincing me not to throw away what amounted to my entire life for a temporary fix, and especially not a permanent one. He kept me on the phone long enough to tell my best friend where I was and provide him with the time to get there. It was his plea to me that finally tipped the scale; I threw away the pills and came home with Wilson alive and opiate free. I know that I will have to account to my therapist for the alcohol, but better one vice to battle over again than two.

Why was I contemplating flushing my sobriety, my friendship with Wilson, my career in medicine, my self-respect and even my sanity down the toilet? It was because the woman I have for over twenty years, Dr. Lisa Cuddy, rejected my profession of love to her and ran off with my rival. Telling her that I was in love with her was one of the most difficult things I had ever done, and while I went into it knowing that there was a distinct possibility of rejection I wasn't expecting the literal slap in the face I received and the hateful words 'Go to Hell' from her lips. Not only did I lose a potential lover, but I destroyed any hope of repairing the platonic relationship we had once shared. I was left devastated, not seeing any point of going on.

I'm still not convinced that my life is worth living, that it wouldn't be simpler for everyone if I just cease to exist. I hurt the people who are foolish enough to care for me, and I don't want to do that anymore. I don't want to hurt anymore. Therapy is supposed to help me achieve happiness, but all it does is leave my soul open to hurt.

Once I am home I head directly to my bedroom; I'm still feeling the effects of the scotch I downed and I feel completely worn out, body, soul and mind. All I want to do is fall asleep and escape the chaos in my mind and heart for just a little while. My leg is aching around a six out of ten, and I know that I will not sleep with it hurting like this. I grab my bottle of Naproxen off of the table next to my bed and dry swallow one; I am tempted to take two, but I'm not certain I need that much to be able to fall asleep and I don't want my body to become resistant to the analgesic; once that happens I don't know what I will do with my chronic pain.

I force that thought out of my mind. After stripping down to my undershirt and boxers I climb under the bedding and rest my weary body on the mattress beneath me. I hear a knock on my bedroom door; I don't want to acknowledge it, knowing that Wilson wants to talk about what happened earlier. That's his way. He believes that by talking about something it will magically disappear and no longer be a problem. The trouble is that he's dead wrong. Talking really doesn't change anything. I'm willing to concede that it can sometimes ease the anguish one feels about the problem, but it doesn't solve it. Regardless, I am just too tired to talk—but I know that Wilson will only continue to nag me until I tell him something, whether it's true or not.

With a heavy sigh I respond to the knock by saying, "Come in."

The door opens and my best friend pokes his head in. "House," he says, "Are you alright?"

I struggle not to laugh at the question; I contemplated suicide today…I'm pretty sure that's an indication that I in fact am not okay. I bite my tongue to keep myself from making a cutting repost that would only cause an argument that I'm not feeling up to engaging in.

"No, Wilson," I tell him honestly. "And no, I don't feel like talking about it."

My oncologist friend walks into the room and sits on the end of the bed facing me. He has that psychoanalytical look on his face that makes me cringe every time I see it. Oh please, Wilson, I think, please not now! Can't you see that I just want to go to sleep?

I see him start to say something and then he doesn't, battling with himself. I realize this is no ordinary lecture coming on—he needs to talk about what happened. Something is troubling him. I sit up, stuffing a pillow between my back and the headboard. I remain silent but I watch him intently, waiting for him to say something; patience is not my strong suit, particularly when I'm feeling miserable (which is pretty much all of the time) but I force myself to remain calm.

He looks down at his hands, which are fidgeting nervously with part of the comforter.

"I'm sorry, House," he says at last. Many people who don't know Wilson as well as I do would find it difficult to believe that apologizing for anything is extremely difficult for him—nearly as difficult as it is for me. It's not that he never says the words 'I'm sorry' to people, but he rarely ever means it, truly. It's simply a tool he employs to smooth over hard feelings and avoid conflict. When he does feel repentant for things he's done, admitting it is almost painful for him. I'm not certain why that is; perhaps it's nothing more than simple pride, or perhaps it goes deeper than that, I don't know. Perhaps by admitting that he regrets doing something he has to face the fact that he did that something in the first place, and the shame of it is too much for him—or perhaps that's simply a load of horse-shit my half-drunk mind is spitting out.

I truly am confused. "For what?" I ask him, rubbing one of my eyes.

Wilson sighs. "I was the one who advised you to talk to Cuddy. I had no idea how it would turn out and to be honest when I gave it to you, I didn't even care. I was a little looped from the punch and all I really wanted to do was skip the conversation and go to bed."

I smirk at that. "Kind of like I want to right now?"

I earn a frown for that remark, but he doesn't respond angrily or defensively. "I don't know what exactly was said or done during your talk, and you don't have to tell me, but I honestly didn't expect you to be quite that affected by it. I thought your feelings would get hurt and you'd sulk for a couple of days…but I didn't know you would contemplate suicide over it."

Saying nothing to that, I look away from him.

"Anyway," Wilson says rising slowly to his feet. "I should have cared enough to really think about what advice I was giving you. I let you down. Killing yourself isn't going to solve anything, and neither will getting stoned. If you need to talk, you know where to find me." He walks out of the room without waiting for a response and shuts the door closed behind him.

I kick myself for not letting him off of the hook. I was the one who ran with the advice without really thinking it out, and I'm the one who executed it poorly, not him. Still, I don't bring it up again. I'm as reticent about admitting my failures as he is. It's no wonder we argue like we do.

I lie back down and close my eyes and before I know it, I'm asleep.

* * *

I'm standing in Cuddy's office. I don't know how I got there and I don't know why. Cuddy is sitting in front of me behind her desk. Her expression as she looks at me is a mixture of disgust and pity. Standing just behind her and at her right shoulder is Lucas. He has a smug smile on his boyish face. In one arm he holds Rachel, Cuddy's daughter; in the other, an infant no more than a few weeks old, swaddled in a blue blanket. The baby is sound asleep. I glance around the room and realize there is an audience of familiar and unfamiliar faces, some sitting on the sofa and others standing, surrounding me. They all scowl at me with derision and disgust.

In the ring of people certain individuals stick out. Sitting on the sofa is my mother shaking her head sadly. Next to her is my father in the Marine dress uniform he was buried in. He appears very much alive and glares at me with hatred, sneering in disgust. The third person on the sofa is Wilson, dressed for work with his lab coat on and geeky pocket protector. He looks at me with the same expression of hurt and hate on his face that he'd had when he stared through the glass into ICU as I awoke from the coma caused by the DBS I underwent in an effort to save his girlfriend, Amber. His arms are crossed in front of his chest as he is wont to do. At one end of the sofa stands Kutner and looking at him reminds me of the way he died and the anger I felt at myself for not seeing the signs that he wasn't alright. He shouldn't have died.

The next individual I recognize is Mark, sitting in a wheelchair; his body is emaciated and his eyes are bitter and standing at his side is Stacy, tall and statuesque, beautiful as always. Her arms are crossed in front of her. Eyes red from crying, she stares at me with anger. Next stands Cameron, her dyed blonde 'hooker' hair framing her face, looking exactly as she had the last time I saw her in my office, blasting me with her hurt and anger because I supposedly had corrupted her ex-husband and made him murder a dictator. She has a bitter, mocking smirk on her face, shaking her head at me. Next to her is said ex-husband, Chase. He stares at me with unreadable eyes, his jaw set. Dr. Nolan, my psychiatrist, stands somberly after him. He shakes his head in disappointment. Going past a few unfamiliar faces I find Foreman, his dark countenance made darker by the scowl he wears and next to him stands Thirteen, beautiful and symmetrical, her face equally angry. A few more faces down I find Taub, looking even shorter than usual. He is smiling smugly and seems to be on the verge of laughing, the most emotion I've ever seen in him. Only emphasizing Taub's height deficiency is the tall and intimidating Detective Tritter, looking smugly satisfied. Vogler ends the ring, staring down his nose arrogantly, every much the bully he always was. Scattered here and there are some of the nurses I've had the pleasure of terrorizing over the years just for my own amusement. In that ring of people there is someone missing, someone I never want to see--.

"But I'm right here!" that obnoxious, fear-provoking voice says into my ear. I don't want to look but compulsively I do. Pushy blonde Dr. Amber Volakis, or as I called her unaffectionately in life, Cutthroat Bitch, stands next to me, smiling like the Cheshire Cat. "I wouldn't miss this for the world!"

I look away from her, feeling sick to my stomach, praying to a God that I don't believe exists that she is not a figment of my imagination!

"Sorry," the blonde harpy crows at me, "your just not that lucky, House."

I realize that my hand is in my jeans pocket, clasping something. I pull it out and see that I'm holding in my hand a pill bottle that is half-full of white, oblong beauties. That's when I see what I'm wearing. Instead of the neat, clean and pressed shirt, sports jacket and jeans that I have been wearing to work since returning from Mayfield I'm in a filthy, wrinkled t-shirt and jeans. I lift my hand to my head. My hair is longer again and unkempt and my beard is longer, untrimmed and natty. I glance behind me again, looking directly at Nolan. He simply shakes his head at me again. I've failed. I'm back on the Vicodin again, back not caring about my appearance, my attitude and my life. I've lost my battle. No wonder why everyone is regarding me with such hatred, why Amber stands next to me, a delusion, a hallucination of my destroyed mind. I'm a failure. I feel overwhelming shame and I feel tears begin to form in my eyes. I blink them back.

Cuddy says my name and I turn to look at her beautiful but somber face. Suddenly she's wearing a judge's robe and in her hand is a gavel. Lucas wears a bailiff's uniform, still holding the babies. The room shifts around me, leaving me dizzy for a moment. When everything settles again, I find myself still in Cuddy's office but all of the furniture has been moved around to look like a court of law. Now I stand behind a long table. A lectern is next to the table and another long table on the other side of that. Sitting behind the other table are Vogler and Tritter and at my table is Amber, grinning like a fool. Where the sofa is are nine chairs to make up the twelve seats of a jury. Sitting there are the rest of the familiar faces I saw before and in the jury foreman's seat is my best friend. In the gallery sits everyone else, spectators of my prosecution

"Gregory House," Cuddy says officiously. "You have been charged with the crime of living a worthless life that had produced little good and much evil, hurting, maiming and destroying the lives of those who have had the unfortunate luck of knowing you and otherwise making the world a hellish place for the rest of us. How do you plead to these charges—Guilty or Not Guilty?"

I stand in stunned silence. This is a trial but it was unlike any I have seen or been a part of. I think over the charges against me and I realize that in greater or lesser degrees I am in fact guilty of all of those things. With shame I look down at my feet and open my mouth to answer Guilty when Amber jumps to her feet and declares loudly, "Not Guilty, Your Honor!"

"No," I object, glaring at my hallucination, "That's not my plea, Cuddy! I know that I'm--!"

Cuddy pounds her gavel several times, cutting me off. She points at me angrily. "That is Judge Cuddy or Your Honor to you, Mr. House!"

"Mister?" I speak up quizzically. "It's Doctor House!"

Leaning over and hiding her mouth behind her hand, Amber stage-whispers to me, "Not anymore. Your license to practice was permanently revoked when Lucas planted a bottle of Vicodin in your desk and then arranged for Cuddy to find them; a random drug test Cuddy forced on you turns up positive for opiates even though you were in fact clean—more of Lucas' handiwork. She fired you and then notified the State board which revoked your licence. Once that happened you started to use again for real. James arranged for you to return to Mayfield for help but as soon as you were out you started using again. With all of that on your record you couldn't get a licence in any other state so you couldn't find another medical job again. Because of your leg and your addiction you couldn't find a job doing anything other than delivering pizzas, falling ever deeper into a depression. James gladly stuck with you through all of it and in appreciation you destroyed him after all he had done for you. You monster!"

I don't have time to process what she said before Cuddy catches my attention again.

"Mr. House, your plea has already been entered by your Counsel," she says officiously. "Please take your seat." I shake my head, confused. I thought Amber was a hallucination…can everybody in this room see my hallucinations now, too. Amber, the woman who hated my guts in life and haunted—haunts—me from the grave is my defense lawyer? Whose crazy idea was that? I'm doomed for sure!

I can't believe what I am witnessing. None of this makes any sense. I don't remember any of the events Amber told me about. I haven't relapsed! I don't know where the Vicodin in my pocket came from but I didn't put it there. None of this has even happened and yet…it has.

"Cuddy," I insist desperately, "I made a mistake telling you how I feel. I should never have kissed you in the park—but, but this? You're going to humiliate me and punish me like this?"

Again the gavel bangs, harder than before. "Mr. House!" the 'judge' yells angrily. "You are out of order. You will call me by my proper title, sit down and cease with the outbursts or I will find you in contempt of court!" Cuddy then leans over her desk and whispers to me, "For once in your life, House, just sit down and do what you're told. You're on trial and still you have to be a pain in the ass?"

I open my mouth to respond but Amber pulls me by the arm down into my seat. The sudden jolt sends agony from my leg to the rest of my body. I glare at her, ready to read her the riot act but she puts a finger to her lips and points back to the 'bench'.

"Detective Tritter," Cuddy says to the other table, "The Prosecution may now call its first witness."

Tritter stands up and surveys the office-slash-court with a smugness that makes me want to punch it off of his face. He picks a piece of lint off of his cheap grey suit and flicks it towards me.

"Your Honor, Humanity calls to the stand Mrs. Blythe House."

I elbow Amber who yelps angrily. "Object!" I whisper.

She frowns. "Why?"

I look at her incredulously. Is she even more clueless than I thought? "Because," I hiss, "she's a juror! Jurors can't testify in court!"

"In this court they can," she informed me, smirking. I stare at her, shuddering—doomed indeed.

From the sofa-slash-jury box my mother rises gracefully to her feet and moves towards Cuddy's desk. Lucas produces a chair out of thin air and places it on the floor for her. Wait a minute—where did the babies go? Suddenly they are gone. I blink a couple of times but then I realize that I am, in fact, seeing clearly. Lucas picks up a copy of Grey's Anatomy off of Cuddy's desk and holds it before Mom. She places her hand on it.

"Do you swear to tell the truth," Lucas asks her, "the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help you the senselessness and entropy of a universe without a God?"

She stares at me with ice-cold eyes, a look I have never seen from her before. "I do," she says and then sits down. Tritter approaches her, slick as a snake oil salesman.

"Mrs. House," he asks her, "What kind of child was House?"

I listen intently, wanting to hear from her own lips what she has always really thought of me.

Mom continues to stare at me as she answers. "Greg was a difficult child right from birth," she begins. I have a sinking feeling. "It was a difficult birth…he simply refused to be born. The doctor had to use forceps to pull him out. Even then he refused to cooperate. As a baby he had colic and would scream so much that I would have to place him in his crib, leave the room, shut the door and let him scream until he had no energy left and fell asleep."

"That sounds like it was very hard on you," Tritter leads, looking sideways at me.

"Yes," my mother continues, lifting her chin. "As a small child he would throw food and laugh even when I told him to stop. He'd take his crayons and draw all over my beautiful walls. When I took him shopping he would run away and hide from me when I wasn't looking, terrifying me greatly and causing quite the problem for the stores. When he didn't get something he wanted he would fall to the floor and kick and scream like he was possessed, embarrassing me. He never had any respect for authority. I think he actually enjoyed embarrassing me."

I close my eyes. How can she say such a thing? I don't even remember the things she is talking about; besides, I was a small child! All small children throw temper tantrums, don't they?

"What about when Greg was older, Mrs. House," Tritter asks smoothly, oozing with false charm. "What was he like in school?"

"He was always in trouble with his teachers and other students. He was disrespectful and disobedient. He was constantly picking fights--."

I have heard too much. I stand again. "I never picked the fights!" I tell her and the rest of the people in the room. "Do you know what it's like to always be the new kid? I was bullied at every school I was transferred to every time Dad was reassigned. I fought back to defend myself! What else was I supposed to do?" I felt a lump form in my throat. "Mom, you know that. I wasn't a perfect kid but I wasn't all bad!"

Once again with the gavel-pounding and once again with Amber pulling me down to my chair.

"How do you feel about the way Greg has handled his life?" Tritter says, continuing his questioning.

Mom looks directly at me again with an expression of disgust and I have to swallow hard not to cry. I always thought that she understood deep down and only stood behind my dad's methods of discipline because she was intimidated by him. I thought she still loved me in spite of the mistakes I've made. Seeing now that I was wrong breaks my heart.

"He's turned out exactly the way his father and I were afraid he would—a complete failure in life and in love, a good for nothing drug addict with no friends, all alone. He is a complete disappointment."

I lean forward on the table, my face in my hands. I can't look at her anymore. If I do, I will break down into sobs.

"Thank you, Mrs. House," Tritter tells her. "He is a disappointment to us all. You may step down."

I look up suddenly and turn to Amber who suddenly has a first edition 'War and Peace' in her hands and looks completely engrossed in it. I knock it out of her hands angrily.

"If you're my defense attorney then defend me!" I tell her sotto voce.

She shrugs and shakes her empty head, saying, "Sorry. I'm you, or rather, your subconscious mind, remember? You have to defend yourself. I'm just here to give you the odd idea from time to time."

I can't believe this. Fearing being held in contempt I nevertheless rise to my feet once again. "Cud—Judge Cuddy, don't I have the right to cross-examine the witness?"

Cuddy lowers an icy glare on me. "No." she answers succinctly. "What do you think this is—the guilt phase, Mr. House? No, this is the penalty phase. Sit down!"

I sit only because my legs are shaking so badly that I'm afraid that they will not bear my weight much longer. The pain in my right thigh is only intensifying. I've already been convicted without being given the chance to defend myself. Why was I required to enter a plea in the first place if I was already found guilty? This whole sham is simply God/Fate/Karma rubbing salt in my wounds.

Tritter calls his next witness. "Judge Cuddy, Humanity calls Colonel John House to the stand."

Dad leaves the jury box and takes the chair—er—stand. I avoid looking at the man who raised me and warped me.

"Colonel House," Tritter begins, "Can you tell the court how well Greg took discipline for his misbehavior?"

Oh, this is going to be rich, I think bitterly. Ask the man who beat me how well I took it!

Dad sits straight and tall on the chair, his face set in the same baneful scowl he always had for me. He stares at me with icy blues, setting his jaw.

"He was more than a handful! The boy was devil's spawn--in trouble constantly. I had the responsibility to train him to be a man of integrity and discipline, a patriotic citizen of this nation and I took that responsibility seriously. I was going to whip him into shape."

"You sure did!" I yell out bitterly, looking at my father with hatred and hurt. "You whipped me with your belt on my bare ass until it was black and blue for even the smallest infraction! You stuck me into ice baths and forced me to sleep outside in the elements! You verbally demeaned and humiliated me every time you saw me! Well look at the shape you created!"

Cuddy bangs her gavel. "Mr. House," she addresses me in exasperation. "Because of your continued outbursts I have no choice but to find you in contempt of court. Bailiff?"

Lucas steps forward and pulls a Billy club out of his belt and begins to slap the palm of his hand menacingly with it. A sadistic smile crosses his face as he approaches me and he stops right in front of me. "I'm going to teach you who is in charge!" he says and then slams the club into the side of my head! I see stars for several minutes before they clear, but the pain in my head rivals the pain in my leg. Lucas returns to his station. I swear a blue streak at him.

"You may continue, Mr. Tritter," Cuddy tells the louse.

"I think we've all seen firsthand how your son takes discipline, Colonel. You may step down. Humanity calls Judge Lisa Cuddy to the stand!"

I hold my head as it throbs mercilessly and watch as Cuddy leaves her desk and stands in front of the witness chair. She takes the oath from herself and sits. How long will this travesty go on? I ask myself miserably.

Amber looks up from her reading and answers, "At this rate, about twenty years, give or take a decade." She smiles smugly.

"Shut up!" I growl at her under my breath wondering if I can kill hallucinations in this court, too.

"Judge Cuddy," Tritter asks, "How long have you known Greg House and how did you first meet?"

I look up at the woman I love, silently pleading with her to remember some of the good along with the bad. The scowl she gives me as she speaks destroys all hope of that.

"I've known him for over twenty years," she answers. "We met in med school at Michigan State. He played me for a fool and one night after too much booze and his slimy brand of charm he got me into bed and then left me and never called again. I couldn't depend on him then and I can't depend on him now!"

I moan in agony. That's not the way it was. "Lisa," I cry out, "I didn't just want to use you and dump you! Remember what I told you at the medical conference? I told you that I wanted to contact you again but I was expelled the next day but I never stopped thinking about you—I never stopped caring. Don't you remember?"

"I remember you didn't call me—you could have told me that you'd been expelled, at least, but you were too irresponsible to do that!" she says back to me vehemently. "Years later, out of the kindness of my heart I hired you when no one else would, I even created an entirely new department just for you. How did you repay me?--by making my life as an administrator hell! You broke all of the rules a dozen times over, broke the law, and experimented on patients only to solve your damned puzzles, not because you gave a damn for them! You flaunted my authority on a daily basis, made every rude, cruel and lascivious comment about me in existence, evoked lawsuits for the hospital, pissed off donors and basically turned everything I built upside down! Then, after all of that you wanted me to trust you enough to start a romantic relationship with you, even though you hated my daughter and I still couldn't depend on you to stick around when I needed you! Do you call that care, House? Do you!?"

I hang my head, unable to answer to that, unable to defend myself because there is no defense. It's all true, every last bit of it. I could try to excuse most of it away by claiming that I was hopped up on drugs and booze but that would only be a feeble attempt to justify the unjustifiable. I feel tears burning my eyes and one escapes my desperate efforts to keep it at bay. I quickly brush it away with my hand.

"Thank you Judge Cuddy," Tritter tells her obsequiously. "You may step down."

She flashes him a flirtatious smile and returns to her seat behind her desk. I can barely breathe. My head is aching and my heart feels like it's been put through a meat grinder. I don't think I can take much more. I watch as Tritter returns to his seat and Vogler stands up for round two. He's as fat and ugly as I remember him; Cuddy smiles at him with the smile she gives every potential donor to the hospital. She obviously is forgetting the way he bullied her, the board and the rest of the staff with his money during his brief but destructive reign of terror. Mr. Money Bags walks to the witness stand.

"Mr. Vogler," Cuddy tells him, "You may call the next witness."

"Thank you, your honor," he replies haughtily. "Humanity calls to the stand Dr. Amber Volakis."

The idiot sitting next to me practically squeals with excitement, throws me a flippant smirk and then takes the stand. Obviously in a court of justice, such as it is, annoying figments of my imagination can be witnesses for the Prosecution. I know what's coming up and I feel nauseous at the prospect of having to replay this period of my life that I wish I could banish from history and time immemorial.

I look towards the jury and my eyes fall on my best friend…or at least he used to be my best friend. Now Wilson regards me with a mixture of hurt and rage; I realize that somehow I've finally alienated him like I have everybody else. I think of all the trials and tribulations we've been through and how our friendship has always weathered the storms. What kind of storm did I spawn that was destructive enough to sever our ties with each other for good? Was it one big storm, or was it the cumulative effect of all the smaller storms?

"Dr. Volakis," Vogler begins. "Please tell the court how you first came to know the defendant?"

Amber looks at me and smiles slyly, but in her eyes is the hatred and resentment I always knew she felt for me. "I met House when he was being forced by Dr. Cuddy to hire a new team of Fellows for his department. Instead of doing the hiring the normal and sane way—by posting the job openings, going through the resumes and interviewing potential candidates, House had to take it to a whole new level of insanity, just to piss off his boss and play mind games with people—he does love his little manipulations…Don't you House?" She stares straight at me.

I stare back as coldly as I can; I refuse to give her the satisfaction of seeing me squirm.

"Anyway," Cutthroat Bitch continues, smiling innocently up at Vogler (I once again get the urge to vomit). "He decided to make the hiring process a competition starting with a couple of dozen candidates and I was one of them. Through a series of dangerous, degrading and outright demeaning exercises he called patient treatment he eliminated candidates based on subjective criteria that changed about as often as the wind did. It came down to four of us to fill two positions. I had proven time and time again that I was the best doctor in the group and most importantly, I wanted it the most, but none of that meant anything when it came to House. He went ahead and hired Kutner and Taub and fired Thirteen and me. But that was all a manipulative ploy to force Dr. Cuddy to open up a third position because it would look like the hospital was guilty of sexual discrimination if a woman wasn't hired. Instead of me he chose Thirteen because he hated me because I reminded him of himself—only much, much more human."

I can't help but scoff at her statement. I chose Thirteen because I needed someone I could trust who would be teachable and work as part of a team. Amber didn't fit those criteria. As far as 'human' goes, she was a harpy, not a woman.

Vogler asks her, "Were you associated with House outside of the work setting?"

"Not at first," Amber answers, "but eventually he found out about James and me."

"James?"

"Dr. James Wilson," she said sweetly and glanced over at the jury box, wiggling her fingers at its foreman. Wilson gives her a sickeningly sweet smile. I have to look away from him because of the guilt I feel.

"James was his best friend," Amber tells the court, "and would have done anything for him, and did, but House paid him back for his loyalty by killing me."

I don't have the strength left to stand but I speak up. "I didn't kill you! You died because of me but I didn't kill you!"

"Mr. House!" Cuddy warns with a dirty glare, and Lucas begins to hit the club across his hand again threateningly. She turns back to the prosecutor. "You may continue, Mr. Vogler."

"How did he kill you, Dr. Volakis?" he asks her.

"He got drunk, as usual," my worst nightmare continues, "and called for James to pick him up and drive him home. 'James' taxi service, open twenty-four seven, an exclusive service for manipulators and moochers'. James was working late at the hospital and not available so I went to pick him up myself. I thought of it as a favor for my lover to help out his wayward friend. When I got there he was so drunk he could barely stand up. When I went to pay his bar tab and grab his cane for him he ditched me and hopped on a bus. I got on the bus too. It ended up being involved in a terrible collision and I was badly hurt but House, as usual, avoided serious injury—that's how it always is…he destroys other's lives and walks away unscathed. I was seriously injured and taken to a hospital other than James', my kidneys had shut down and it resulted in my death. I wouldn't have been on that bus to be injured if not because of him!"

I shake my head. "Your Honor," I say to Cuddy, "She was on the bus because of me, but I didn't force her to take the medication to ward off the flu and I didn't cause the accident. I was injured in the crash, a head injury—Cuddy, you know all of this! In fact, I risked my life with the DBS to try to save her! Believe me, if I could go back in time…," my voice breaks and I have to collect myself before continuing. "If I could go back in time and change things I would. You think I wanted Wilson's heart to break?"

"You hated me!" Amber spits. "You were jealous of the fact that James loved me more than you, that he preferred spending time with me than with you! So you killed me to retrieve his full attention and pandering!"

Now adrenalin gives me the strength to stand. "And you started dating him in the first place with the intention of manipulating me through him to hire you! Don't think I don't know! Only Wilson didn't tell me about your relationship in time for you to use him to influence me to hire you, so you decided in revenge to make my life a living hell by trying to destroy our friendship! I doubt you even loved him in the first place! If anyone is a manipulator it's you!"

At this Wilson stands up and begins to shout, "House! Sit down and shut up! Haven't you caused enough trouble that now you have to lie about her, too?"

"Wilson start thinking with your brain instead of your dick for once!" I yell back and I feel tears stinging my eyes. "You barely worked with her or associated with her until it came down to the nitty-gritty and she was in danger of being eliminated, then all of a sudden she on the scene and she's in love with you? She tells you when you can and when you can't spend time with me. She sets all of the rules and you just sit back like a spineless jellyfish and say nothing. Not even your three ex-wives controlled you to the extent she did!"

"Shut up, House!" Wilson shouts again, growing more agitated.

"She must have given the best fucking head of all time to be able to control you the way she did!" I'm practically screaming now. I have nothing to lose anymore. Apparently I've already been convicted, I've lost my career, my sanity, my sobriety and the only friend I had in the entire world—in other words my entire life—so there's nothing they can do aside from killing me to punish me anymore.

Suddenly Wilson is running at me and jumps me, knocking me to the ground and pummeling me with all of his strength. I don't want to hurt him; I've done enough of that already, but I try to defend myself, to get him off of me, but he is a wildman and I simply can't. My ex-best friend then wraps his hands around my throat and begins to squeeze with that same supernatural strength. I claw at his hands and arms to pry them off, but I can't. He makes it impossible for me to breathe and I know that I can't hold out much longer.

I stare into his once brown eyes that are now black with dark emotion and I realize that I have finally done it. I have finally pushed and driven away absolutely everyone in my world and am absolutely completely alone. I stop fighting him. Wilson is doing not only humanity a favor by killing me, but me as well. I want to die.

"I did everything I could do to help you!" he screams into my face. "I tried for years to help you, I forgave you time and time again, I picked you up when you fell and I gladly would have continued doing all of that indefinitely because you were my dearest friend, my only real friend and I loved you more than my own brother! How did you repay me? -- by destroying everything I had by taking you from me!"

My oxygen-depleted brain is having difficulty understanding. Did he just say that I took myself from him?

"I could kill you now a million times but it wouldn't matter because you're already dead!" At that Wilson let go of my throat and falls back onto his rear on the floor, rubbing his face with one hand. "Why, Greg? Why? What did I not do that I could have done to help you?" He looks at me, tears running down his face. His eyes are chocolate brown again and all of the hatred he displayed before is gone. I know now that I am dead. This office, these people, they are not real, and this isn't earth. This is my own private hell.

I gasp for breath, sucking in air hungrily. Finally I have enough that I can speak.

"Nothing," I croak, shaking my head. "There was nothing more you could do! You were the best friend I ever could have hoped to have. I didn't deserve your loyalty and devotion. You're right. You're all right. I was a selfish bastard who couldn't see past his own self-centered needs to be a real person and a true friend. I hurt instead of comforted; I took and never gave back."

"No, Greg," Wilson tells me, shaking his head emphatically. "You were a real person and friend. You gave so much without even knowing it. You were just hurt and angry and in constant pain and you didn't know how to be anything other than what you were. Were you selfish and egotistical and sometimes cruel? Yes—just like the rest of us. Just like me."

Suddenly I notice that the entire jury surrounds Wilson and me, looking down at me. They begin to shout out things at me at random.

"You were brilliant and you threw it all away."

"You could be so compassionate."

"You saw things about people that no one else saw."

"You were so talented."

"You succeeded at everything that was important enough to you to try."

"You were recovering so well."

"You were so courageous in your fight."

"You saved lives that no other doctor could have."

"When I needed you the most, you were there."

"Because of you I'm a better doctor today."

"You were gaining such insight."

"I was so proud of you son."

It goes on and on until my head is spinning but one thing sticks out in it all was the fact that it is all past tense. At some point, for some reason I threw it all away. The voices stop; everybody and everything around me disappears into blackness except for a light that shines down from overhead like an invisible spotlight and there is silence. In that circle of light there is only Wilson, Cuddy and me. All that can be heard is our breathing.

"You threw it all away," Wilson tells me softly, "when you were on the cusp of finding the happiness you desired so much--if you had just held on a little longer."

"I tried to come to the park to meet you alone," Cuddy says. No longer did she wear her judge's robe and carry a gavel. "But Lucas said he wanted to watch over me to make certain you didn't hurt me and I chose to let him. I wasn't ready to listen to what you had to say because I hadn't given you a chance from the moment you came home from Mayfield. I didn't allow myself to really see you growing, healing, because I was afraid."

I look at her, nearly drowning in sadness and regret. "Of what?" I whisper.

"Of the truth--that you really were better, because then I would have had to admit that I had been unfair to you," Cuddy answered softly, a fond but sad expression on her beautiful face. "That I had made a mistake with Lucas, that there finally might have been a chance for us and because of my lack of faith in you, I had missed it."

A tear traces its way down my cheek. I look questioningly at Wilson. "How did I do it?" I ask.

"Does it matter?" Wilson asks. "All that matters is that you finally pushed everybody away permanently."

"Wilson began to drink too much," Cuddy tells me and I look back to her. "It started off drinking alone in that large, lonely loft and progressed to getting drunk every night. Eventually he drank all of the time and it began to interfere with his work. He was never really sober anymore. He was drunk in surgery once and ended up killing his patient as a result. He lost everything, destroyed himself with the guilt he felt and spent years in jail. When he was finally released he just disappeared, never to be heard from again."

I look to Wilson in disbelief and he simply nods morosely. "Cuddy was heartbroken. She was on her way to see you to tell you that she was going to dump Lucas when…you did it. She felt like she was to blame. Lucas was there to capitalize on her grief. She didn't dump him after all; she married him in hope of being able to move on, to eventually heal. She had his baby, a son, but he had a congenital heart defect and died when he was just hours old. The grief crushed her. Lucas, over time, wore her down with psychological abuse and extramarital affairs; she went from the strong, independent, vital woman she was to a ghost that had lost her job at the hospital and never thrived again. By the time Lucas left her for someone else Rachel had run away from home and never returned--her body was found a year later dumped in a farmer's field. There was little left of Lisa Cuddy after that. She spent the rest of her life just existing, constantly reminded of what could have been but never was because you died.

"Literally thousands of lives ended or were irreparably damaged because you with your incredible skill and gifts were not there to help them. You always felt like you were worthless, that the world would be a better place without you, that if you were dead you wouldn't be able to hurt anyone anymore. But you were wrong. The world was so much the worse without you. Mine certainly was."

"And mine," Cuddy whispers.

The two of them stand up and begin to back away from me, out of the light. I stand up but fall again from the pain and weakness in my leg.

"Please," I beg of them, more tears falling down my face. "Please don't go. Don't leave me!"

"We aren't leaving you," Wilson tells me as he and Cuddy begin to disappear into the darkness. "You left us."

They both disappear and I find myself completely, utterly alone.

"Come back!" I call after them. "Come back! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!"

Slowly the circle of light around me begins to shrink in size. I am terrified. What will become of me once the light shrinks completely and disappears? What is there in the darkness? Is there anything at all?

"Stop!" I scream into the nothingness. "Stop! Come back! Cuddy—I'm sorry! Come back! Wilson, come back!"

As the light disappears completely I scream—

"--No!!!" I scream in terror, sitting up in bed, my body drenched in sweat, my heart beating so quickly that it's close to losing any kind of real rhythm at all. I am still in the black. "No!!! Come back!! Wilson, Cuddy—no!!!"

A flash of light falls across me and my bed as Wilson throws open the bedroom door and enters at a run. He sits on the edge of my bed and grabs my shoulders, but I don't see him yet.

"House!" he cries, "House, I'm here! It's just a dream! It's alright!"

"Wilson come back!" I scream once more before he begins to shake me.

"House, Wake up!" Wilson yells and instantly I'm back in my bed, in my bedroom. I'm panting hard, crying like a baby, shaking from terror—and very much alive. I see Wilson now. He is looking at me with concern, his eyes searching my face for some sign of consciousness. I finally meet his gaze and my first overriding impulse leads me to hug him tightly. At first he its stiff with surprise but gradually he relaxes and tentatively returns my hug, patting my back uncertainly.

"I'm so sorry!" I tell him. He's there. He's alive. I'm not all alone. I haven't ruined his life.

"It's alright," Wilson tells me. "It was just a dream--just a dream."

"You're here," I gasp.

"I'm here, "he responds. I start to calm down. My heart slows again to a safer rate and my breathing slows and deepens. My mind finally wakes up completely.

"You're alright." Wilson assures me again and then, after a moment adds, "Uh, House…do you think you could let go…of me…now?"

Realizing that I'm still clinging to him and how gay it must look I release him and draw back quickly; then I see his face again and I grab it in both hands just to convince myself that he really is there.

"Good," Wilson says uncomfortably. "That's just…real good. House, you're not actually going to kiss me, are you?"

I grin, realizing how creeped out he is. I pull his face towards mine and his eyes widen in horror until a place a kiss on his forehead and then let go.

My best friend looks at me with uncertainty and scoots back from me a little.

"That must have been one doozy of a dream," he comments, "and I'm kind of afraid to ask you what it was about."

"I abandoned you," I tell him quietly. "I abandoned Cuddy, lost my job, my career, my sobriety and ultimately my life. I got a look into the future and saw hell."

Wilson shakes his head. "How did you abandon us?"

I simply look him in the eye and don't say anything; He catches my message loud and clear.

"The future's not fixed, you know," Wilson tells me a little anxiously. "You can make a better choice."

Nodding I smile and remain quiet a moment before answering, "I know."

He puts a hand on my shoulder. "Make a better choice." Wilson rises from the bed and leaves me alone with my thoughts.

I stare into the darkness and curse it. Reaching over to the lamp on my bedside table, I turn on the light.