The file was a bitter green, like Christmas trees. Down the side, three solid blue letters tormented her. Tracing the simple ink over, she sniffed. It shouldn't have happened like that.
Not to her.
Three papers sat mercilessly behind the ugly green cover. The first represented the child's birth, two days previous. The last was her death confirmation, the letters scribbled hastily above every line. Seven hours ago, this paper didn't exist.
But it did now.
The middle paper was a detailed account of her medical history. Breathing problems, underdeveloped lungs. Cardiac arrhythmia, bradycardic.
She lost a patient.
Her birth date was printed on the tab of the file, reminding Cuddy that baby Sarah was just that: a baby. She wouldn't grow old enough to eat solid foods, to learn to walk. Sarah wouldn't learn to spell her name, to nag people about the 'h' at the end, to even speak the name that rolled so softly off Cuddy's tongue. "Oh, Sarah," she said, releasing a breath that hadn't escaped.
She pressed her eyes closed in an attempt to force the tears at the corners of her eyes back in. To no avail, they streamed down her cheeks in hot rows, one after the other. They blurred her vision as sobs racked her body, her strength giving in as she let her head fall to her desk.
She lost more than a patient.
A baby.
Her right hand felt cold and rough under her cheek as she calmed down enough to have her senses return. The IV tape was black around the edges, dirty. Suddenly, almost fascinated, she stopped crying, staring intently at the sticky residue holding the IV in place. Her mind followed the tube in her hand up, around, and to the drip of pain medicine and a cocktail of several other medications she couldn't place. Her left hand gripped the cold metal of the drip holder as the sobs, the realization of death, surged through her veins.
She sat like that for hours, asleep for a bit, to be woken by a nightmare that sent another round of sobs through her body. When she did finally sleep, it was only thirty minutes before she woke again, but to the warmth of a hand gripping the one she last remembered to squeeze the drip holder.
His legs were folded underneath him, a painful position, his shirt more disheveled looking than usual. His hair was in disarray, and he hadn't shaved in well over three days. It was probably more like a week.
Piercing eyes, alive with fury, sorrow, and emotion stood dominant against his pale skin and peppered hair. An arm rested gently in his lap, the other in midair, his hand clinging to hers.
Cuddy lifted her head slowly, revealing to the cane-less House her red nose and bloodshot and baggy eyes. He'd never seen her this bad. Swallowing hard, she gripped her desk as she stood from the chair. She was soon finding herself on the floor, resting against House's shoulder. Silent tears rolled down her cheeks again, dropping to House's dark pant leg.
Their hands were still intertwined minutes later when the sobs started again, Cuddy's face buried in House's shoulder. "She's gone," was all she could say through the breath-taking crying.
She found herself wrapped carefully in his awkwardly placed arms, his hands lying limply against her back. Cuddy felt the beating of his heart against her head mid-sob, and once again, she found something that calmed her down. Counting the beats, over and over. It was a steady, nearly unchanging pulse, something she found solace in.
Only after what felt like forever to her did she realize that House hadn't said one word since he found his way into her locked office to comfort her. She lifted her head to see his face, his eyes, and rested her head again when she saw the raw emotion, the sincerity in him.
House had held her there for hours, just like he had when she had gone into premature labor at six months only two days previous. Unmoving, wordless, he had somehow found himself there too many times to keep up his uncaring reputation around the hospital.
It was the birth of Sarah Cuddy that forced her into a hospital bed instead of beside it. Sarah's birth had found House in his office, his oversized red and gray tennis ball creating small smudges on the glass walls.
Her stay in the NICU, however short, was the time Cuddy sat, recovering from her panic attack and the near heart attack she had received as a result of her pregnancy. It was in that uncomfortable bed, against the lumpy pillows and useless sheets that she got the news of Sarah's death. The words came in a blur, none of the specifics engrained in her vivid memory.
Only seconds later, House's pager sounded it's bitterly technologic sound. A small message rolled across the screen, and something inside him dropped. With one last catch of the tennis ball, he recaptured and released the ball as hard as he could against the glass in front of him. The diagnostic table found it's untimely demise, a large crack spreading through the center of the table, the point of impact.
Then there was now: the aftermath. Cuddy found herself on the floor of her office, behind the large wooden desk, the lights off. She still wore her hospital gown, the knot of the strings somewhat resembling a bow. Her hair was matted around her face, sweat and tears mixed with the waves. They were both paled, their eyes almost shimmering as he wordlessly replaced her drip bags that he had let rest on her unused chair.
As he sat back down, she found her head once again on his chest, and his hand once again intertwined with hers.
He remained like that, silent and unmoving, until she fell asleep. Popping a couple Vicodin, he stretched his legs and continued with the demeanor until well after she woke up.
It was in times like this one that she just needed to collapse. She needed to release all the pressure she held inside and break down. She just needed someone to hold her, to be her rock.
And it was in times like this one that he realized that he was human. He knew what he needed to do, but not what to say. He didn't know where to put his arms or how to talk, but he knew that he had to sit there, to be with her. He couldn't stand back and watch a friend, a girlfriend, just fall apart. He needed to help, and to be her rock.
Hours later, she was still crying and he was still silent.
He would deny it later, in front of Wilson and the ducklings, but it was still real.
House would still, and always be, her rock.