"You want me to risk my life to save Amber's?"
The words echoed in his ears louder than the continuous whining note of the heart monitor and the sound of his own violent sobs. James Wilson sat with his best friend's cold hand clasped tightly between both of his own. This was his fault, all his fault. House's skull had already been cracked, he was concussed, traumatised - even if he tried to hide it. This had been so risky, and yet he had pushed, forced House without even having to ask; because no matter what he might do or say, House was Wilson's best friend, and he would have done anything for him.
Now he would never know that Wilson didn't blame him for Amber's death, that he would welcome Amber's death with wide arms if those electric blue eyes would just flutter open. He would never know how very much he meant to the oncologist, how much he needed him in his life to fill the holes that no one else could.
Gregory House was dead, and Wilson's life was already so much darker.