"You have a brake your in your fifth metacarpal and have a small hairline fracture in the fourth." Wilson said looking over House's x-rays.
House still hadn't spoken a word. Not a single word from Wilson's office to radiology and finally to an empty treatment room in the deserted clinic.
Wilson turned to his unnaturally silent friend.
House sat on the examination table holding his broken hand to his chest, gingerly applying an ice pack to the swollen appendage, his eyes focused on the light box on the wall.
"I'll just immobilize your hand, no need for a cast." He said moving towards a drawer with the necessary equipment.
He heard the tell tale rattle of a Vicodin bottle which told him that House was actually listening to him. The drug being used as a pre-emptive pain med for the discomfort that was yet to come.
Turning back, Wilson placed the bandage and splint on the table before tugging at the sleeve of House's outstretched wrist.
He looked for what was really the first time at the broken hand. The skin had already turned an interesting color of red with the occasional tinge of purple almost visible beneath the surface just waiting to burst forward in tones from black to blue.
"God, you must have hit him hard." Wilson said softly, his voice a mix of emotion. Awe, shock, anger, sadness and others in between.
"He asked for me. When he came into the room he asked for me."
Wilson stayed quiet and kept his gaze fixed on House's hand and the splint he bandaged to it, afraid that if he looked at House he would stop talking.
"I didn't think. Not often that it happens, but some of the stuff that comes out my mouth is just a reflex, my sarcasm muscle flexing at the sight of an new target."
There was a pause.
Wilson knew House regretted his choice of words.
"He looked normal enough. But if I really believed that why didn't I turn back to the board? Why did I keep watching him? Why didn't I do more? I saw something in his eyes; a sort of distance. I shouldn't have said it. Why did I say it?"
Anyone who didn't truly know House would have thought the question rhetorical. Wilson however had known House for over ten years; he heard the questioning and desperate tone in his voice.
"House, you were just being you."
"But just being me has never got anyone shot before. I've hurt patients, not caring about their emotional wellbeing just delivering the blunt truth with no care for the consequences because they're not mine. I've made interns and nurses cry, repeatedly. I've had thirteen lawsuits filed against me in the past 4 years. I've made janitors and catering staff quit after less than two days into the job. But I've never almost gotten someone killed. Sure, patients have died because we couldn't catch it in time, because of a process of elimination in treatments, but I didn't... I didn't care."
There was something in the way he said the word 'care' that made Wilson's ears prick upwards. Wilson knew that House did in fact care (in his own House sort of way) about any patient that he lost, but this was different.
This was Cameron.
"I ... she can't die, she just can't."
"House, I know you blame yourself but the gun wasn't in your hand. In fact you knocked it from the hand it was in. Cameron wouldn't..."
"Stop." House said barely above a whisper, his eyes holding Wilson's gaze for the first time all day.
The tone of finality in House's voice told him that was the last word he'd hear from House that night. Possibly longer.
Wilson gulped.
House stared at him not entirely unlike the way he'd stared at the shooter before House broke his hand on the guy's cheek, with a glazed and fearful look Wilson dropped his eyes to House's hand once more.
He finished the splint in silence, passing the bandage over and under in a well rehearsed dance all the while feeling House's heated gaze still on him.
Once taped and finished, Wilson filled out a script for Vicodin knowing that he would be using more over the coming days.
House took the paper silently and thrust it into his pocket.
Tentatively Wilson met House's gaze.
Anger had faded into the background. His eyes were dark, filled with sadness, pain, regret and exhaustion.
Wilson gathered up House's x-rays and thickening medical file then moved to the door. He opened the door and turned back to his friend, he hoped.
"Try to get some sleep House."
The door closed softly.
House closed his eyes and breathed deeply.
He was angry at Wilson.
He was furious at the bastard that shot her.
But more so he was livid with himself.
A part of him wanted to hit anyone he saw until he passed out from pain and exhaustion. A part of him wanted to cry. A part of him wanted to break into the police station and squeeze the life from the shooter with his bare broken hands. A part of him wanted to end it all now, over dose on whatever he could find in the room.
He sighed and opened his eyes to the unfriendly harsh lighting.
He got stiffly to his feet, tossing the ice pack into the trash before taking up his cane.
As he walked through the halls of the hospital he was unsure if he found the quietness of it all comforting or claustrophobic.
In little to no time he came within sight of Cameron's room. Moving closer he saw two figures standing inside checking various instruments and drips. Closer still he recognised them as Chase and Foreman.
Adrenaline should have shot through him invoking a fight or flight response, but he was fresh out. The traces of the natural drug still running through the system were already numbed by the Vicodin he'd taken. Neither flighting nor fighting, he simply stopped and stood staring into the dimly lit room.
Chase and Foreman checked everything over in an entirely professional way, the awkward glances between them and the pained gazes at the still form on the bed the only indications to the fact this was not just any patient.
Together they made notes on the chart that hung at the end of the bed before turning to leave.
They paused slightly at the sight of his grim features before exiting from the room and standing in front of him.
"You look like shit." Foreman said quietly in an even tone despite not looking much better himself.
Then again his hand wasn't broken and he hadn't spent hours standing on a bum leg watching a heart stopping operation.
"How is she?" House asked ignoring Foreman's comment.
"She was shot, how do you think she's doing?!" Chase whispered angrily.
"How is she?" House asked in a slightly more forceful tone, anger bubbling in his veins.
"She's alright." Foreman said in a calming tone, "Everything is normal. The surgeon said something about her shoulder being overly bruised and swollen; he thinks she might have fractured her shoulder blade when she fell back."
House knew that wasn't all the surgeon had told him.
"And your prognosis?" House said softly, sapping every ounce of strength from his tired body to stop himself from breaking down or passing out.
"It was almost seven minutes House." Foreman said in a low tone.
"I know," he said almost a whisper, remembering the seven minutes that felt like an eternity.
All three of them knew of the possible implications.
"I'll have the tests ready for when she wakes up. Probably won't be for another ten hours or so."
Foreman sighed, and glanced at his watch.
"Eleven thirty. I'm gonna head home, I'll be back in at seven."
House half expected the man to run away and leave an angry looking wombat to beat his crippled ass, instead Foreman stood there giving Chase a poignant look.
Chase sighed and dropped his head slightly, "Fine."
At which point they walked around him with nothing more than a nod in his direction.
House listened a moment to their retreating steps. He moved closer to the room resting his hand on the swinging door before pushing into the room. He came to a stop around four feet from the foot of her bed, something akin to fear holding him back.
He watched her chest move up and down, even and equal completely unlike the long hours ago when he had his hand over he shoulder.
The words 'I'm sorry' passed through his head. But they didn't sound like enough. Nothing seemed like it would be enough.
His eyes scanned the equipment briefly before he left the room.
He made it to a restroom before he started to gag; his hand gripped tightly to the cool porcelain sink as his stomach churned until he could taste bile and regurgitated Vicodin in his mouth.
It stopped eventually.
He rinsed out his mouth a few times and splashed water against his face.
He stared at the drips of water that slid to his chin and fell to the white sink.
He couldn't leave. He didn't want to leave. He wasn't even sure he wanted to sleep, but his slow languid blinking told him his body had other ideas.
His office was out of bounds. Asking the nurses for a cot was out of the question and Wilson's chair wasn't nearly as comfortable as it looked.
He stole a few blankets from a storage room, broke into the office, took two Vicodin and passed out in the depths of a leather couch. He didn't give a second thought to his actions, unconsciously deciding to face them in the morning.
Sleep enveloped him the second he had obtained a somewhat comfortable position; considering both his leg and hand it was an almost nigh impossible task. Eyes closed, blackness surrounded him as he slipped to somewhere restful and free of the nightmares of the day that would haunt him in the future for weeks and months to come.
