He sighed. As much as he denied it, it was true; children hurt the most. Children hurt everyone when they go.
Sometimes, they don't understand. The concept of death hasn't yet been explained to them, and all they feel is pain, but they simply cannot comprehend why everyone around them is crying when they are the ones hurting. Words like 'terminal' and 'fatal' make no sense to them, and all they see ahead of them is endless life.
Sometimes, they are accepting. They understand death, but all they see in the world is good. They see no one to blame, and so they smile and reassure everyone that they have been happy, but, secretly, they want to know; they want to know what it's like to grow up and fall in love, drive cars. To live.
Sometimes, they are angry. They want to know what they have done to deserve this, and all they feel is hate. They lose their faith in everyone, those that they previously trusted blindly to protect them always. They lash out, creating guilt and pain for everyone involved, when all they want is life, perhaps for just a few more years.
Sometimes, they don't get a chance to show their reaction. They die suddenly, in a cold, impersonal hospital bed or on the operating table. At home, even, where all they know is peace.
Poor kid, he thought. The girl had been barely four years old. A damning misdiagnosis had killed her, the youngest death he had ever been partly responsibility for, and, for once, he felt the heavy weight of guilt settling on his shoulders. The image of her lying dead in the hospital, her eyes shut and her face expressionless, refused to leave his mind. He knew this feeling was irrational; he had done all he could to save her once he had realised the mistake, but the damage was already done. He tried to push the thoughts out of his head, to pin the blame on someone else. After all, it had not been entirely his fault. The fatal decision had been at least half Cuddy's doing, he rationalized desperately. As always, she had been adamant that the child would not suffer, and so she made the kind choice, effectively killing that which she fought so hard to protect.
He limped past her office tiredly. The lights were turned off, he noted. He poked his head around the door, almost hoping that she wasn't in there; he didn't need to discuss this right now. He breathed out a sigh of relief as he spotted her, asleep at her desk. Anyone else would have woken her, either out of kindness or malice, but he merely let her sleep. She needed it, he figured. That thought lasted until he spotted the empty bottle lying abandoned on the floor beside her. His heart almost stopped, then immediately sped up, his pulse quickening with fear as he made the connection between the bottle and his apparently sleeping boss.
"Cuddy!" he exclaimed, hobbling over to the desk and shaking her roughly. "C'mon, Cuddy, wake up," he muttered, lifting her head off the wooden tabletop and looking for a sign of consciousness in her face. Nothing. In desperation, he reached for her wrist and felt carefully for her pulse. A fleeting terror shot momentarily through him as he felt nothing but her smooth, cold skin beneath his fingers, but he relaxed slightly as the not-so-rhythmic throb of blood pumping through her veins made itself known. He didn't know how full the bottle had been to begin with, but he had a pretty good idea.
"Ah, shit," he groaned as he watched her back rise and fall irregularly, her dark hair completely obscuring her face. "Cuddy, you idiot," he sighed, adrenaline kicking in. He knew that he could easily lift her with all the weight she had lost over the past two weeks' particularly stressful case, but carrying her any distance would be an impossibility with his leg, so he opted instead for propping himself against the desk and unceremoniously dragging her from the chair to the floor, quickly rolling her onto her side. He glanced at her uncertainly, unable to believe that the sensible, ever-dignified Lisa Cuddy could drink herself into oblivion in the space of just an hour, before making his way to the door as quickly as possible and yelling out into the deserted corridor for help.
Unabashed fear swept through him as he crouched beside her, observing the blueish tinge to her skin and her slow breathing. Seconds later, Wilson skidded into the room.
"House, what the hell?" he asked breathlessly. Gaping, he spotted Cuddy lying on the floor. "House! What's going on?"
"What, now I'm a woman-beater? She has alcohol poisoning!" he declared indignantly, anger flaring up at the slow calmness of everything. "The Carter kid died and she decided to drown her sorrows in a whole bottle of whatever's lying on the floor over there, now do something," he ordered, pointing his cane at Wilson threateningly.
"Okay," said Wilson slowly, breathing out calmly. "Help me get her up," he commanded.
"That's right, get the cripple to lift her!" he snapped. "Stop being such a fucking wimp! Just get her to the nearest bed, and don't give her a fireman's lift, whatever you do," he almost yelled, helplessness washing over him.
--
Hours later, House sat at her bedside. She would be waking up soon. He had needed a pee for at least the last hour, but he was afraid that she would wake up while he was gone. Eventually, he stood, reached for his cane and made to leave the room, shadows rippling across his face as he limped raggedly to the door. A quiet murmur behind him alerted him to her consciousness, and he turned quickly to see her face contorting in confusion as she slowly regained awareness. He dropped back down into the stiff, plastic chair beside her bed.
"I have to ask, Cuddy; what the hell were you thinking?" he said shortly, brushing hair out of her face with the backs of his fingers. Her skin was still cold to touch, but had lost its blue tint of earlier that night.
"What?" she mumbled indistinctly, moving her arm sluggishly as if to swat away his hand, but the effort was too great.
"I thought you were dead," he admitted. His voice was flat, deliberately unemotional. "Your skin was blue. You were taking seven breaths a minute, if that. Your blood alcohol was 0.4," he reeled off.
"I killed... a child," she choked out, her eyes finally opening and boring into his own. "I killed a little girl."
"No. No, we killed a child," he corrected. "And you don't see me getting pissed off my head."
"Then you really are the heartless bastard everyone says you are," she muttered. "How can you want to feel, at all, after that?" He raised an eyebrow, his hands finding hers on top of the cold, white sheets and giving it a quick squeeze.
"I don't," he said simply. "And how little do you think I'd want to feel if I'd walked into that office just ten minutes later and found you dead instead of just unconscious? You almost died, Cuddy," he reminded her sharply.
"Perhaps it would've been better if you'd let me," she replied bitterly, tugging her hand from his grasp. He took several deep breaths, trying unsuccessfully to control his anger at her blatant disregard for her own life.
"Maybe I will next time," he told her quietly, heaving himself up from the chair and snatching his cane from where it was propped against the bed. "Obviously, I care too much," he muttered venomously as he left the room, leaving her to sadly watch him go, already regretting her harsh words.