A/N: PLEASE READ!!!!!! THIS IS VERY IMPORTANT!!!

This story is not so much a 9/11 fic, but more of an angst-comfort-hurt story. Sort of a regain-control-over-your-life sort of story. It will not really focus on the political or historical aspects of 9/11, more of the emotional stuff.

Since this is a very sensitive topic for many people, let's just get these three things out in the open right now.

1) YES; I understand that none of the Ducklings worked for House in 2001, but let's just SAY THEY DID.

2) NO; I was not in New York, New Jersey, or even on the East Coast when 9/11 occurred.

3) NO; I did not have any family members/friends/colleagues get trapped, killed, hurt, wounded or really personally affected or anything like that in 9/11.

So, I just wanted to say this because it really is exhausting to have to listen to you guys bitch about how it's innacurate. Am I looking for familiarity of friendly faces in a dire time like 9-11? I don't know. In fact, I don't really know why I'm writing this... I just have a strange passion for American history, and I wanted to vent a little bit of emotion on the 6 year anniversary of this event. Please don't be cruel. I'd like it lots more if you critiqued my WRITING instead of my INTENTIONS or whatever.

Ringggg!!!!

Ringggg!!!!

RINGGGG!!!!

House rolled over in bed... truly exhausted as the phone rang in the that shrill, trilling way that it always did when he was suppoed to be waking up. It was 9:30 in the morning. This was the third time the phone had rung in the last half hour. Again, the caller decided to leave a message. It was Wilson.

"House? Get up off your lazy ass and pick up the phone. I know you're there. You need to pick up the phone right now. You need to get to work... if you haven't already seen... for God's sake, House... just get to work already."

BEEP.

House laid there in a mess of his twisted bedsheets for several minutes in silence. The little colon on his automatic clock flashed, signaling every torturous second that he laid there, wishing for nothing but sleep. After about five minutes, House groaned and sat up straight in bed. Perhaps it was in everybody's best interest if he just got up now. He swung himself over the side of the bed, his head spinning with the blood that had been congealing in his butt ever since he laid down to sleep. He massaged his leg... it was hurting a lot today, for reasons he couldn't understand. He popped two Vicodin and stood up, grabbing his cane.

8:45 AM, Dr. House checks in.

At least, that was what House wrote in the log as he walked into the clinic that morning, even though it was 9:47. But as he walked into the building, no one was there. It was the creepiest feeling he had ever felt. No nurses, no doctors... no patients at all. Not even Cuddy was there, patrolling the hallways like a hawk. Slightly unnerved, he limped over to the elevator, clicked the 'up' button, and let it lift him up.

As soon as he came in through the doors of his office, he saw that Chase, Cameron and Foreman were not pining over a file, and the coffee filter package lay untouched, sitting neatly in it's rightful place in the cupboard. They weren't doing any of the normal things House expected them to do or say when he walked in three hours late to work. They were watching House's small television. For a split second, House thought that the ducklings had finally taken after him in his "No-work" attitude, when he saw the looks on their faces. Cameron's face was streaked with tears, and her shoulders were shaking, Chase's eyes looked a bit watery, but he had yet to succumb to tears, Foreman looked severly distraught.

"Where have you been?" asked Chase tonelessly, almost robotically.

"Where the hell do you think I was?" snapped House grouchily. "I was sleeping! It's what comes after you stay up till two in the morning trying to figure out a case!"

Cameron held up a hand to quiet him.

"What's going on?" asked House. He could barely see the small screen from how the three were sitting.

"It's New York City," said Foreman blankly. "The World Trade Center."

"Yeah, big buildings... 'Twin Towers'... big deal. Any cases?"

"House," snapped Foreman, looking at him like he had just done something extremely offensive, which he had in fact done.

"What?" snapped House. "Will someone please just--"

"You haven't heard?" breathed Cameron. House, wild-eyed with frustration, glared over at her. She took a deep, shuddering breath.

"At 8:45, a plane hit one of the towers," she said. House paused for a moment, before letting out a slightly derisive laugh.

"What kind of an idiot of a pilot would run a plane into the World Trade Center?" he laughed.

"He wasn't an idiot," said Cameron.

"Well of course you would think that, Miss The-World-Is-Always-Perfect. The guy was probably high," said House, trying to maintain his stubborn composure. "You can't trust any airline these days."

"He wasn't high," said Chase. "It was all planned."

"Great, so this is what happens when the pilots decide to boycott...Jesus..."

"They aren't boycotting," sniffed Foreman. "And he's not high either... or drunk, even thought that's what we all thought," said Foreman. "But, fifteen minutes later, another plane hit the other tower."

There was dead silence.

"The planes were hijacked."

House felt the blood draining from his head, and he wavered for a moment, before making the first decision that came to his mind.

He burst through the door of the office. Wilson's office.

"Wilson!" he called angrily. Wilson was doing the same thing that the rest of them were doing... he was hunched over a small television, and his face was streaked with tears. His hand was covering his mouth, his elbow perched on his knee. House expected Wilson to start wailing on him for not picking up his phone, but he said nothing. Neither of them did. It was the two smoking buildings on the screen that had him not saying anything. So it was all true.

"Cameron says they were hijacked," House whispered. Wilson sighed deeply and ran his fingers through his hair.

"I don't know..." Wilson breathed. "It seems the whole world's gone upside-down."

"What about your precious, tumor-ridden patients?" asked House.

"I've given them all their medications... Cuddy's shut down the hospital for today," said Wilson.

"Just because--"

"Can't you at least try to show some actual human emotions for once in you life?" snapped Wilson, rounding on House.

"I am being who I am," snarled House. "When did this all start?"

"The first plane hit at 8:45," said Wilson grudgingly.

"What's going to happen?" asked House.

"I don't know, House."

"What's..."

But he trailed off as his eyes fell again to the towers and fully comprehended what he was now seeing-- Debris had been flying out of the towers, papers and supplies, and black figures. He finally had realized what the dark figures were.

"Oh my God," whispered Wilson, beginning to sob quietly. "This is unreal..."

House said nothing, but the two of them jumped as there was a knock on the door. Wilson wiped the tears from his face.

"Come in," he said.

It was Cuddy who emerged from the doorway, looking in worse condition than Wilson and Cameron put together.

"House," she said, slightly suprised. "Wilson said he couldn't get a hold of you."

"I got up," replied House simply. Cuddy wiped a single tear from her face.

"I guess you've heard, then."

Houes nodded, looking back at the TV set, when a horrible thought hit him.

"What happens if there are more?"

Wilson looked up at him.

"More what?" asked Cuddy.

"More planes."

Cuddy looked severely frightened at this morbid comment, but Wilson said, "There have been two already... the towers are down. They've done their job."

"Well, I'm sure that's what everyone thought after the first tower, but--"

"No one knew what to think after the first tower!" exclaimed Cuddy, slightly hysterically.

"Fine, but that's not the point!" snapped House, irritated. "What if more planes have been hijacked? What if the next planes are headed for the Capitol building, or the White House? What if they've planned all of these planes at the same time to start mass hysteria in the U.S.?"

"Always trying to make it into a puzzle, aren't you, House?" scoffed Wilson.

"It's not a puzzle! It makes sense!"

"House, two planes have just been hijacked and blown into the Twin Towers on an alledgedly beautiful day, hundreds of people are burning and jumping to their deaths and life in New York has pretty much been completely stalled. None of this makes sense," growled Cuddy.

"I'm not saying it was good logic," snapped House. "But they could have been planning this for years! I doubt something this well-planned could have been devised overnight."

"I dunno," said Wilson. "You'd think Air Traffic Control would have stopped all the planes by now... forced them all to make emergency landing."

"If planes are hijacked, you think terrorists are going to make an emergency landing?" asked House.

"Yeah," cut in Cuddy. "And I heard one of the planes wasn't even headed for the East Coast... they were headed for San Francisco, and they turned it around."

Wilson, House, and Cuddy all looked at the television screen in silence, before House turned to the door and began to walk.

"Where are you going?" asked Cuddy.

"To see if my team needs me."

Cuddy and Wilson exchanged looks of indentical thoughts. House had never cared about if his team had needed him. In fact, he had barely cared about his team ever, but today was different. Today-- just as Cuddy had said -- life everywhere had been stalled. Today, the world sat in silence --- in grief, in terror -- but in silence. Today was not like any other day.

"What if he's right?" asked Cuddy, turning to Wilson, after House had left the room.

"Then," sighed Wilson. "We're all f---ed."