Standoff
Wilson lay with his face pressed to the cold linoleum and thought how sad it was that a WaWa, a convenience store, for God's sake, would have a cleaner floor than House's apartment. That wasn't his most pressing concern, though. If he really wanted to think about something more urgent, he'd consider how he was going to die here, bleeding to death alongside the two people he'd come to think of as Pizza Woman and Chip Boy. Those had been the items in their hands before the Law of Really Bad Timing had caught up with them all.
His unintended companions appeared to be dead. Pizza Woman had been shot three times, two of the bullets literally passing through the Tombstone-brand frozen pizza she'd clutched to her chest (and how fucking ironic is that? James wondered). Chip Boy had only been hit once, but it must've been somewhere immediately vital because the kid hadn't moved since. Wilson felt badly about the teenager and woman, but at the moment he felt much worse about himself.
He'd been shot twice, the first bullet punching him hard in the stomach, the second drilling through his right lung, destroying muscle and tissue and bouncing off ribs. (Wilson wasn't on the same level of diagnostic genius as House, but the fact that every short, gasping breath he took hurt like a son-of-a-bitch was a pretty clear sign his lung was severely compromised). His belly felt like it was on fire, and he knew whatever blood not already seeping through his fingers was busy having a party mixer with the septic contents of his gut. The man who had shot them was dead, killed by his own partners after he'd panicked and started blasting away at the helpless customers. Probably just afraid he'd accidentally shoot them too.
The police negotiators were outside now, trying to persuade the Bad Guys to come out (with your hands up, Wilson thought, and would've laughed if it hadn't hurt so damn much).
He'd been distracted, hadn't noticed the clues, might not have been able to put them together even if he had. The SUV out front, motor running, license plate covered with mud so it was unreadable. The man in the Yankees sweatshirt by the door, hood up even though the June humidity was stifling, one hand holding a walkie-talkie close to his mouth, the other thrust deep into the pouch pocket. The way everyone's eyes (men in ski masks) had turned to him when he walked into the robbery already in progess. By then it was too late. He was a doctor, trained to observe. Why hadn't he seen?
Beginning to tremble with hypovolemic shock, he was angry that this was it -- dying alone in pools of blood with complete strangers -- Chip Boy, Pizza Woman, and even Dead Bad Guy. They'd be linked in headline tragedy as the lead story on the 10 o'clock news, and wasn't that a great way to go out? He was angry at all he hadn't done today, and wasn't going to get to do tomorrow. Patients would die that he might've saved. No cures for cancer in his lifetime. Everything will end here.
He'll never see House again, and that makes him angriest of all.
At least he hadn't insisted on coming to the store with him tonight. It wasn't much in the long run, but it was enough to give James a tiny measure of peace.
He heard glass shattering somewhere, a dull whump!, and then a hissing sound, as if a cobra had suddenly slithered out from under the stacked display of laundry detergent. An acrid stink filled the air.
Great, Wilson thought, I can't breathe and they're using tear gas. Screwed again. He tried to lift one of his hands to shield his face and was unsurprised when his arm refused to obey. He felt strangely wet, inside and out. Oh God, this sucks on so many levels. Black and white spots like animated dominoes were starting to dance in front of his eyes.
He was barely aware that SWAT and EMT teams had stormed in, securing the store. Screaming, crashing, sounds of chaos, and then gentle hands were turning him carefully on his back, slipping an oxygen mask over his face. Someone shouting in his ear to stay with them, to hold on.
His pager went off, vibrating at his belt. Probably House wanting to know why he wasn't back yet.
Fuck him. James sank into unconsciousness, still angry. Next time he can make his own damn beer run.
fin