A/N: For some reason this fic was removed 'due to content'. I've checked it over and am unsure why so have uploaded it again with a warning in case that was the reason.
I wrote this after watching an American Dad episode with friend and, as both of us laughed at the line 'I can totally see her bra through her gunshot wound' this story sort of came to me as it seemed a very 'House-like' sentiment. I had also always wondered what would have happened if the gunman hadn't recognised Cameron as well, so I guess this is my slightly morbid alternate take.
"He's got a temperature of 103."
House stirs his coffee, his back to the three young doctors puzzling over the information he feeds them. Foreman rolls his eyes, quick to realize that the prospect of fatality is not what's capturing his boss's interest
"And why do we care?"
"Because we're human beings; it's what we do."
The sarcasm is tangible.
"He said he was in a luncheon meeting."
"You took his history?"
Cameron looks up from scribbling notes at the table, her look of wide-eyed disbelief causing House to smirk. He pulls the stirrer from his mug, jabbing it in the direction of Chase and Cameron as he speaks
"The guy looks like Harpo; you should see him!"
"You asked him what book he was currently reading...?"
Chase looks up to regard him quizzically, wondering if he has somehow misread the notes in his hand
"It's hilarious to watch him try and talk; I asked him anything I could think of! Favorite color; 'wloo'... I asked him if he was sure- where are you going?"
House takes a break from his cruel yet amusing impersonation of their latest patient to call out Foreman. The younger man is busy packing away his books into his briefcase, and throws House a withering look
"You're an ass."
"I know- where are you going?"
"This is either a toxin, an infection or an allergic reaction; I assume you gave him epi so that rules out allergies. Put him on antibiotics in case it's an infection, and if it's a toxin we'll keep him here over night, wait for the swelling to go down and send him home. I'm going to the movies."
He moves to leave the room; no interest in watching House torture his new plaything until bored. His path is blocked by a small man with dark hair and he steps back automatically to allow this newcomer to enter the room. The others take in the man with matching expressions of polite lack of recognition. Well, apart from House who raises an eyebrow impatiently.
"Which one of you is House?"
The lack of a smile on the man's slightly haggard face and his disregard for any form of greeting suggest that this is not a friendly visit. House curses under his breath; in no mood to deal with whatever breed of lawyer, loved one or long ago patient this man may be.
"The skinny brunette."
Despite the slight ambiguity, all eyes fall on Cameron. She flashes the greying doctor a tired frown and gets up to apologize for House's behavior.
There is a flicker of movement from the small man and then a sound.
It is a sound they all recognize, but none can immediately place. It is joined by slim hips cracking backwards against the ridge of the sink counter, and Chase gives Cameron an odd look; confused by the movement that is almost sexual.
The sound echoes and hurts as it makes their ears ring; slowly melting away to be replaced by an odd whistling, both wet and desperate. It shouldn't be audible, but the otherwise silent room plays a sympathetic stage.
A red rose blooms through burgundy silk.
The man still stands at the far end of the room and what he holds in his hand is black and used. House has the best view and slowly deciphers the crude object for what it is. At least it feels slow. Time seems to have taken on a different meaning; capturing the five of them in their own bubble where the rules are different.
In reality no more than two seconds have passed from the gun going off until now.
Chase and Foreman watch in horror as the man turns what they have now realized to be a weapon up into the guilty cavern of his mouth. That sound again and he no longer stands before them.
"Oh God!"
Chase drags his fingers at the skin under his eyes, staring in horror at what is left of the gunman's face. Foreman makes an odd noise of disgust. House watches Cameron.
She stares at the mess on the floor and struggles to make sense of it. She knows it should make sense, but she can't seem to concentrate, and oh hell, oh shit, something hurts.
Breathing has become difficult and dark wings creep at the edges of her vision; turning liquid and seeping inwards. She becomes aware that what she wants- what she needs- is a glass of water. It always helps when she feels dizzy, and right now that is exactly what she's feeling. She attempts to make her request known to none of the men in particular.
Instead of words there is only air. She panics and struggles to form a coherent sound. She coughs wetly and a red mist hangs momentarily suspended before her and she knows that's not good; after all, she's a doctor.
Time speeds up and becomes factual again.
"Oh Jesus, call for help, get security, the bastard's gone and shot himself, oh hell!"
"Cameron..."
Foreman looks up from Chase's horrified moaning and studies her with awful realization. The front of her shirt and waistcoat is slick and wet and red.
"Cameron!"
In her face now, hands on her, voice loud, deep and booming. She wants to tell him to cut it out- that she's thirsty, not deaf. She opens her mouth to tell him so, but what comes out is visible not audible. A freshet of scarlet runs from the corner of her mouth, coating her chin in a slick trail of gore.
She sobs in frustration; she feels winded and sore and all she wants is some fucking water and the stupid asshole is just fucking looking at her and it hurts like a bitch and her knees are shaking.
Crimson falls to the floor like rain, and she vaguely remembers her husband scolding her for spilling red wine on their carpet forever ago. She recalls the ugly burgundy stain, but not his name, and she supposes House will take the money needed to clean the carpets in the here and now out of her paycheck.
"Oh Jesus, Cam, oh fuck, House! Call someone!"
Foreman is still yelling, still loud. House remains where he is; still, silent and white. And tall- has she ever told him how tall he is? Probably.
Then someone is screaming for help- and she knows it's not House because his lips aren't moving. The voice is younger, and she's pretty sure it sounds blond.
Chase.
Foreman's hands tighten on Cameron's arms as he feels her begin to slide down the counter. He guides her down gently and tries to pretend he doesn't see the ugly red smear she leaves behind her.
"Cameron? Allison? You still with me? Cameron!"
Green eyes flicker up at him momentarily, but refuse to remain focused. He runs a hand fretfully through her hair over and over, repeating her name until she forgets the meaning.
A shadow falls over the two of them, and for a second she thinks it's the dark wings from the peripheries of her vision closing on on her again, but then realizes this darkness is man-shaped. House.
Light burns her eyes and she snaps at him to quit it.
Red, red, nothing but red. Coating her teeth as she bares them at him; feral.
"House, stop it!"
The penlight is knocked, spinning, to the floor. Foreman.
A light slap to her cheek and it burns; sharper than the pain in her chest. Her heart aches like a rotting tooth and she considers simply pulling it out, but her hand won't move when she tells it to. The heat in her cheek is somehow more real and she glares at the calloused hand in front of her, poised to slap her again if needed.
"Cameron, you need to stay with me now, ok? Keep your eyes open and I won't hit you again- at least not unless you ask me to- I'd hate to miss out on whatever kinky fetishes you harbor."
House.
Pressure on her chest and she cries out. The sound is wet, but at least it's a sound.
She looks down and it's House's hands on her, touching her.
House is touching her chest.
And he said he didn't like me.
House continues pressing his hand to the wound at the young doctor's sternum, dimly aware that it's too little too late; there's too much blood soaking her shirt and- oh fuck- even her damn dress pants. She's smiling though- at what, he's not sure, but it's got to be a good sign. Right?
Darkness begins to creep in on her once more, and this time there's no explanatory shadow. She tries to blink it away but her lashes are suddenly lead. Too heavy. Too cold.
"Hey. Hey! I told you not to-"
"Cameron, come on-"
She's vaguely aware of hard fingers digging into the bony flesh of her shoulder. A small but firm shake.
"No, no, don't do this-"
"Foreman stop- she's not a rag doll!"
"Well what do you want me to do?! Where the hell is Chase?"
On cue, a melody of footsteps patter in, accompanied by loud, off-key voices.
There's a great deal of yelling and cursing and then too many hands in too many places and she's getting pretty tired of this shit. Pretty tired in general.
Suddenly there's motion, and she supposes she's being wheeled somewhere but the thought is secondary as she becomes dimly aware that she can't breathe.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
That has to be House walking behind her amongst the scurrying feet. She imagines she'll always be listening out for him. 'Always' doesn't seem like it will be too much longer, and she supposes she's somewhat grateful; it's awfully tiring denying how she feels about him.
"I can totally see her bra through her gunshot wound."
Angry yelling and a scuffle at this remark. Her bloodied lips- blue beneath red from lack of oxygen- form a small smile.
Asshole.
She wonders what will happen to the carpet spattered with her blood.
She wonders if House approves of the green bra she opted for this morning.
She wonders if she ever thought to tell any of them she has a cat that will need feeding.
And then she doesn't wonder any more.