A/N: Apropos of my previously published story, sure I could have just handwaved it as being set sometime after the fellas presumably part ways with the ladies they end up with by the end of season 6 (as I sincerely hope they do), but far be it from the little voice inside my head to leave well enough alone, and my mental sense of continuity demanded some sort of prequel-esque follow-up to tie up one of the loose ends. Thus, I wrote this while on front desk at the office today. Possibly asks more questions than it answers. Whoops. Nevertheless:
Granted, he thought, you'll never know if an experiment will succeed or fail if you don't try. So they did try, and failed. Actually, they'd tried once before - and failed then too - but that was a long time ago. If at first you don't succeed, give up?
Maybe. Neither of them could identify exactly why it hadn't worked, only that it hadn't. Unless she had some idea she had not shared, he wondered. But there was no use speculating. From the window, he could see the car speeding off, receding into the distance. The goodbye was easy enough: no anger, no vitriol, no smashing of cherished objects, thank God. No great sadness either, no tears, nor desperation: there had been no attempts to work it out, no pleas for change, just quiet resignation, and acceptance.
When she had returned to retrieve the last of her things, she turned once to look at him as she made for the door. He leaned against the wall, arms folded, watching her go.
"Bye James," she said with a sad smile.
"Bye, Sam," he replied.
Stripped of nearly half its contents, the loft seemed now more spartan than ever, empty and spare. If these walls could talk, he thought, right now, they'd be downright laconic. The quiet left his mind with too much space to wander round, to think on how much of an idiot he felt, how he likely could have predicted that this would fail, if he had allowed himself to see it. Too much thinking. He needed music. Something.
He walked over to the stereo and quickly flipped through his collection; there was a dusty sleeve he didn't recognize hidden behind the others. A 78 of some old blues song, long forgotten. Not his, and certainly not hers; rather, he surmised, it was left behind by an old friend. A parting gift, or a parting shot, who knows. The crackling of the turntable was warm and comforting, familiar.
He settled down on the sofa with a glass of tequila. He felt a surge of heat course through him as he downed the corrosive liquid. It felt good to feel something. It wasn't even good tequila.
When the song ended, he rose from his seat and placed the needle back at the beginning. Another turn, another tequila. He soon lost count of how many times he repeated this procedure.
He could not say as to how long this went on, only that, at some point, the sun had gone down, and at some other point, he started to notice the telephone.
He stared at it. The telephone stared back. Sometime in the midst of this staring contest, he noticed that the song had ended again, leaving in its wake a comforting chorus of static. He rose, prepared to begin again. His head spun as he stood. Or perhaps the room spun. Perhaps both. He gingerly placed the needle back at the beginning.
One more turn, he thought.
He sat – slumped, rather – back down in his seat. He stared at the telephone. The telephone stared back. It beckoned him.
Don't call, he told himself. This was stupid. It wasn't like he had any idea what he would say even if he did call, and by no means was he far enough gone as to breathe into the receiver until he was hung up on. No, he should call, he finally resolved. The words would come.
He had no idea whether it was too late to call; for all he knew, it was the middle of the night, or the wee hours of the morning. Not that it had ever mattered before. He picked up the receiver.
The number was so engraved into his memory, the dialing sequence so automatic, that even his somewhat encumbered motor skills could not stop him in time to rethink his decision. He waited. His pulse had quickened to the point that if he did not know better, he might suspect that someone had dosed his drink with amphetamines. Again.
Click.
"Hello?" said the tired voice on the other end of the line.
"House, it's me," he said, his voice breathless, almost a whisper. "I've made a huge mistake."