This idea just would not leave me alone. I wrote this quick and I haven't seen 97 Seconds in quite a while, so don't expect perfection. The title, if anyone's wondering, is a reference to a theory derived from the Bible. It says that a person's consciousness is linked to their physical body by a metaphorical "silver cord" that can be loosened or broken.
SPOILERS for 97 Seconds and Holding On. And I really don't own House, so don't sue me.
He knows Wilson and Cuddy are going to be pissed at him, but the magnet drawing the knife in his hand to the wall socket across the room isn't letting up. House closes the charred knife against his forehead and flicks it open, imagining that the metal weapon is pulling him towards the shining socket. Realistically, he knows that he was never going to stop himself from doing this. The thought was planted in his head, and it wasn't going to leave him alone. The only question now is who to page. Wilson is the obvious choice but, seeing as he often gets false pages from House, probably not the best one. Cuddy is out of the question too, as she hardly even carries a pager, let alone comes running at the request of House. He runs through his long list of fellows, calculating the odds that he is going to risk his life on, and finds Cutthroat Bitch the safest choice.
When House sends the page, he knows he doesn't have much time. He hesitates; gives her a few extra seconds to make it to his office, and then plunges the knife into the metal socket in front of him. He hardly even registers the searing pain in his hand.
When House had the infarction, he blamed the visions of the life he could have had on chemicals. Endorphins firing in his brain. This is strikingly, sickeningly similar. He's watching the world around him like he's watching scenes from a movie. And yet, the disconnected feeling he had with his other visualizations-or whatever the hell they were-is gone. He's still standing on the sidelines, but somewhere deep down, he feels like he's on the field.
He finds himself in a dark parking lot, his oversensitive brain taking in every detail of his surroundings even though the constant drive he has to figure out how and why isn't so critical anymore. He's observing out of habit instead of needing to know what's going on. His leg doesn't hurt. In fact, he feels as if he's swallowed a few too many Vicodin, a feeling he's very familiar with. His body is bathed in a soothing, numb feeling. But unlike with his overuse of the pain killers, his mind doesn't feel foggy or dulled in any way. It's great.
In front of him is a silver Volvo. Wilson's, he realizes with a bit of a shock. There's a dark figure sitting in the driver's seat, but they don't look to be too keen on starting the car or getting out. Curiosity peaked, House steps closer and the figure-Wilson-leans his head back against the seat. His glistening cheeks are the first thing he notices; Wilson is crying. Hard. Harder than he's ever seen Wilson cry in real life. The more House watches, the more he notices. Wilson is noticeably older, and sporting some decidedly un-Wilson-like stubble. House is startled, but only because he knows that he should be. Other than that, he's still drenched in this haze of peace.
He seems to be stuck in place now, as he watches himself-well, an older version of himself-emerge from his left. Like in the visions he had with his infarction, he somehow knows that no one can see him, maybe that he isn't even there. He knows it's weird that this doesn't bother him, but the isolated feeling is keeping him from doing anything but watching the movie play out before him.
The older House is limping a bit more than usual as he makes his way towards the car where Wilson sits, still sobbing with a kind of desperation that scares House more than he will admit. Older House doesn't look so good either; his expression is one of a defeated man. House watches as he crosses the parking lot and reaches the car. He opens the door and sits down next to Wilson, who doesn't appear too happy about his presence.
"Look at you. You don't wanna die," Older House says in a soft tone that House rarely, if ever, uses with anyone. Muted alarm bells are beginning to sound in House's head. The peaceful fog is thinning just a little bit and a hole has been poked. Like a balloon slowing but surely letting out air, House's laidback sensation is easing further and further away.
"Of course, I don't wanna die!" The vision of Wilson says through clenched teeth. Normally, this would indicate House's cue to leave, but Older House doesn't seem to be going anywhere.
"Well, then fight," he counters.
Wilson is raising his voice now. "I did! I tried." House notices that blackness is tickling the edges of his vision.
"One time," Older House argues.
"House, get out of my car," Wilson tells him seriously. His voice is strained and all of House's experience with Wilson is telling him that it's time to back off. Older House either doesn't recognize this-high unlikely-or is ignoring it-far more likely. Meanwhile, House's dreamlike state is rapidly slipping out of his grasp. His leg still isn't bothering him, but he can feel panic rising in his abdomen and he doesn't know why. Maybe because the black edges are now swarming in closer, making it hard to see anything but the Volvo.
In the car, Older House refuses to let Wilson win this argument. "You don't have to just accept this," he replies.
Wilson has had enough. "Yes, I do have to accept this. I have five months to live, and you're making me go through this ALONE!" House flinches at Wilson's harshness on his last word and, with the hazy numbness almost entirely gone, he's beginning to connect the dots. His best friend has 5 months to live in this hallucination or dream or whatever he's found himself trapped in, and that fact alone is choking him as the darkness threatens to overtake his entire world. His protection is gone now and he feels like he's going to vomit. He can hardly breathe because his throat is so narrow, his stomach is churning like he had too much to drink last night, and he feels like he's trapped in an underground coffin, silently suffocating as he uses up his last gulps of oxygen.
Wilson stops sobbing and continues as the world closes in even further. "I'm pissed because I'm dying, and it's not fair. And I need… I need a friend. I need to know that you're there. I need—I need you to tell me that my life… was worthwhile, and I… I need you to tell me that you love me." House, barely able to concentrate on anything except not puking all over himself or passing out, catches the older version of himself quietly say "No" before he can't hear or see anything anymore. Then it's as if someone flipped a switch and turned off the queasiness and swelling in his throat.
He slowly realizes that the vision loss is because his eyes are closed, and opens them to see Wilson staring back at him. He's back to the Wilson that House knows-young and healthy and perfectly pissed off. "You're an idiot. You nearly killed yourself," he accuses. He's clearly been waiting there a while to say those words.
"That was the whole idea," House answers, all the dreamlike sensations gone. He figures it must have been a dream, the vividness probably due to nothing more than chemicals being released. And even though he knows that can't possibly account for what he just saw, he repeats it in his head over and over.
"You WANTED to kill yourself?" Wilson asks incredulously.
"I wanted to nearly kill myself," House clarifies. He goes on to ask about the patient and they have a bit of a struggle over whose topic of conversation will win out. Wilson won't let up on why House acted so rashly, while House needs an update on his patients. After a minute or so, Wilson has switched his desired topic to what, if anything, House saw.
"House, you gotta talk about this," Wilson insists. But House is already dismissing the visions, slowly convincing himself that it was nothing but his own twisted mind. He opens and closes his hand instead, the pain distracting him quite effectively.
It distracts Wilson too, who grabs House's chart and begins his left handed, doctor scrawl. "Just looking at you hurts. I'm going to order up some extra pain meds," he announces.
House wants to make some sarcastic remark that will still let Wilson know that he's grateful, but nothing comes to mind. The only thing echoing in his head is the Vision Wilson's desperate words. The words of a dying man. He smirks inwardly as an idea pops into his head. And once a dangerous thought like this one is in his head, it's not going to leave him alone until he satisfies it.
He looks up at Wilson, forcing all the sarcasm and flippancy out of his tone. "I love you."