He can barely even recognize her, what with her hair having mostly fallen out and her skin rotting, but he doesn't tell her that because it's not the sort of thing you tell a woman, is it? Especially when you've been in love with the woman in question for almost a year now while she has stubbornly refused to love you. And you're definitely not going to say it when she's on her deathbed.

Of course, he has yet to consciously admit to himself that she's dying. But subconsciously, he's already given in because House himself has given up, and if House can't solve it, who can? Not Foreman, who at first made a few weak jokes about the two of them not sleeping together anymore, then frantically offered diagnoses and is even now running every test he can think of. Not Cuddy, who minces and offers soft words and tells him that he can take as much time as he needs.

Which leaves him. The one who's only on the team in the first place because his father 'made a call,' but also the one who cares the most about her and surely that counts for something. And, if he does say so himself, who else has, in recent memory, managed to solve a case that House couldn't?

But he can't solve this one and she dies. He is not in the room when her heart monitor turns into a flat line and starts to beep monotonously, but he sees the nurses rushing towards her room and joins them. They are bustling and flustered, but they calm when they see him, immediately placing their trust in the doctor. Barely able to form the words, he tells them to leave, making up some excuse concerning blood pressure and who-knows-what-else. He has no idea why they fall for it but is insanely grateful when they do.

Gently, half-afraid she might still wake up, he detaches the IVs from her forearm. The skin is pockmarked from blood withdrawals and her arm itself is so thin as to be insubstantial. Her skin is papery and nearly transparent; were she still pumping blood, he might even be able to see the veins flutter. He presses his lips to one of her needle scars and is almost surprised when her skin does not simply dissipate under the heat of his breath.

Pulling back from her arm, he looks at her face, the only part of her body he still recognizes. He leans over again, kisses her forehead and says two words. By rights, he knows it should be three, because the three words are what the romantic heroes always say. But Allison would understand, wouldn't she, that the two words he can say are the best he can do. And that's what he tells himself when he says, "It's Tuesday."