For the first time ever, he'd proven someone else to be right. He'd been warned. He'd been told he'd OD at some point in his life on the Vicodin he threw back like candy. But none of them had predicted it would be intentional. Except for maybe Wilson. Wilson would likely suspect it was not an accidental overdose as he read the coroner's report. He'd read the words cause of death in his cautious way and scan over the mixture of alcohol and Hydrocodone. He'd read it several times before finally realizing that he'd read it correctly.
The following reactions were House's own prediction, as he mused lying on the couch with the third of the three bottles he took down to beat the tolerance his body had built up, still in his hand. He probably only needed two, but the third was for good measure. He knew exactly how each person would respond. His mother would cry, and that he regretted. He never wanted to hurt her; she'd always been good to him. She was the best mom a guy could ask for. His dad would call him weak. There was no surprise or remorse there. Wilson would be angry and then he'd probably cry and mourn in accordance to the best friend code of conduct. And he would blame himself. But it wasn't Wilson's fault and some day he would figure that out. Cuddy would also blame herself. If she'd been a better friend maybe… but ultimately her grief would give her no solace.
Then there were the ducklings. Cameron would fall to pieces. She'd still cry about the fact that she was not able to love him enough. But she'd move on. She'd take all she learned about the way he behaved and turn it into a private mourning away from everyone. She wouldn't cry in front of everyone, and if she did, it would be a few tears and nothing more. The sad thing was, Cameron almost made him want to be a better person. But it wasn't enough. She gave up on him quickly, and maybe in hindsight, he shouldn't have pushed her away. Live and l—never mind.
Chase would hug someone. Probably Cameron, more likely Cuddy. He'd cry and become emotional. That he also regretted. Chase had always been his favorite of the ducklings. He never told him that and almost wished now that he had. Maybe then Chase would feel a little better about the razzing that was constantly dished, and had no resolution after House died. But again, he didn't. He never told Chase that he was a good doctor, or that he was worth the fellowship, or that when he was at Chase's stage professionally he screwed up too. He never said those things. Now Chase would never hear them.
Foreman would handle it the best of all. He'd mourn probably. It'd upset him sure. But there would be no public display or any real emotion. He'd take it in stride and handle it with a stoic nonchalance. He never seemed to care one way or another about House. After he was shot, Foreman was the only one that didn't constantly check to make sure he was okay. And Foreman would maybe mourn him privately but House had no way of knowing. He didn't really care either. He'd always respected Foreman's stoic approach.
He closed his eyes, not really by choice; they fell closed without any effort from him. For the first time since his infarction he felt no pain. No pain at all. His breathing was labored. His head was swimming and incoherent but his leg didn't even so much as carry a dull ache. At least in death he'd feel no pain. For no other reason than the simplest explanation; there is no pain once the heart stops.
The first sense that came back was his sense of hearing. The familiar beep of his heart rate being monitored filled his ears before he even opened his eyes. Two things could be the outcome of his awakening. He'd died and hell was a hospital. Or he wasn't dead at all. Someone had had the nerve to come and save him. Saving was not something he was worth. He had two culprits in mind. It was either Wilson, or Cameron and he bet money on one of them waiting by his side for him to wake up.
"So… which one of you is it? Oncologist or duckling?" He said before opening his eyes.
The rustling of what clothes against one of the poorly covered chairs signaled someone was waiting for him to wake up, probably sleeping themselves. No one took his hand so he assumed it was Wilson. He sighed and finally opened his eyes and turned to face his visitor. Sure enough, the tired brown eyes of James Wilson stared back at him. Relief, anger, sorrow they were all there.
"You're an ass." Was all the Oncologist could choke out without tears.
"Yeah. I know." House replied.
"Killing yourself? Was that your plan? Did you OD on purpose?" Wilson asked, even though he was sure he knew the answer.
House was silent. He didn't have to answer the question.
"You aren't going to say anything? You're just going to sit there and mope! Why? Because you failed? Because I saved your life and now you're mad at me? Well fuck you." Wilson was now crying.
"Wilson…" Was all House could manage.
"I wasn't a good enough friend to you. I should have noticed the cries for help instead of just dosing you and thinking that would be good enough. I should have helped you and listened to you and not just assumed you were just being House…" He sighed. "I'm sorry."
House laughed. "This has nothing to do with you."
Wilson's pager broke the silence. He looked at it and then got out of the chair, slipping his lab coat back on and straightening his tie. He threw one more look at House who still wasn't looking at him. He just stared off into nothing. Finally, Wilson made a comment.
"Your just lucky your liver didn't shut down." He stormed out of the room.
House sat there, alone. He stared at the readings from the monitor then checked the IVs before sitting up and going to grab his chart. Before he did he stopped. He thought about it before leaning back. House realized he didn't care about his condition or his care. He didn't care about anything.