A/N: Sorry it took so long. Finals and all that crap. But school's out for the summer. Woohoo! Read and Review, please. Truly Yours, Sherlocked Gallifreyan.
SO… I am making changes to this chapter. I am breaking it into two shorter parts, because there are still some logistics that I am working out for the latter half. I do apologize for the inconvenience, but suicide is not a familiar topic for me, nor is what the police and EMTs do at a suicide scene. With any luck, I'll have the last chapter up before… before… before the world ends. Just kidding. Hopefully I'll have it up before next week. Thank you for your patience.
A/N II: A huge thank-you to guest reviewer Scruffy for pointing out several (stupid) logistical errors on my part, as well as the fact that I called the hotel receptionists 'secretaries'. I don't know what I was thinking writing the original Chapter 3. Thank you again, Scruffy. Truly Yours, Sherlocked Gallifreyan.
Cuddy pulled to a stop in front of House's apartment complex. She darted into the building. Wilson, who was struggling to undo his seatbelt, shouted for her to wait. Of course, he grumbled mentally, finally undoing the stubborn seatbelt. He ran after her and found her jostling the door knob, even though she knew it was locked.
"There you are!" she said, ripping the key from his hand and unlocking the door. She threw it open violently and stormed inside. "House!" she shouted. "Where are… House? Where are you?" The anger quickly faded from her voice and posture.
"What is it?" Wilson asked. She pointed mutely at the phone and the cell phone (which was dead). The phone had at least a hundred messages saved. It was clear House hadn't been there in quite some time.
"Search the place," Cuddy ordered, heading toward the bedroom. The bed was made, and the curtains were drawn. Cuddy's heart sank. This wasn't like House at all.
"Found a note," Wilson said, leaning into the room. "Before you rip this from my hand," he said, pulling it away from her, "it says he's at a hotel. I think I know which one."
"Then let's go!" Cuddy said, whisking past him. Wilson rolled his eyes before following her.
Thirty minutes later, Cuddy demanded that the confused receptionist tell her what room House had rented. "He's… he's in Room 613!" the receptionist said, shoving a key at Cuddy.
"I'm sorry," Wilson said, giving the receptionist a fifty dollar bill.
He caught up with Cuddy, who was shoving at the door. "That idiot's blocked the door," she growled, stumbling as the door swung open.
House spun guiltily. "Cuddy!" he said. "What are you doing here?" He backed toward the open door and balcony. Cuddy's heart lurched. She knew exactly what he planned to do.
"Don't you dare!" she snarled as House stood on the chair by the railing.
"House, don't," Wilson said, staring at his friend. "Come down. We can figure this out."
"There's nothing to figure out," House said, calmly standing on the railing. Without another word, he fell forward.
Cuddy screamed and ran to the railing, reaching toward the still body on the ground sixty feet down. Wilson ran forward and wrapped his arms around her waist to discourage her from following House. "No," Cuddy whispered.
"I'm so, so sorry," Wilson said as she turned around and hugged him tightly. He held her as she sobbed, gently rubbing her back. "I'm so sorry." Tears ran down his own face.
Cuddy tore free from his embrace and sprinted down the stairs, not wanting to wait for the elevator.
A crowd had gathered around House's body. She shoved her way through the crowd and knelt by the body. Dimly she heard someone yell, "Call an ambulance!" "I already called the police," a quieter voice said.
Wilson pushed through the crowd and stood behind Cuddy, staring at the body, not wanting to believe House was dead…
