Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to House, M.D.


October 25. "Believing"

I have barely moved in two days. I sit on my bed, my legs crossed beneath me, a blanket draped over my shoulders. I have not gone back to work. I have barely eaten anything, unable to muster enough energy to walk into the kitchen and grab even an apple. I don't remember calling in sick to work, but I guess it doesn't matter that much. I can't think straight anymore.

I just can't handle this anymore. I don't want to think about House or anyone, but I don't really have a choice. I'm still in shock. I can't believe that he would ask something so horrible of me; does he truly believe that I could do that to him? I didn't answer him when he asked; I had no idea what I would have said to him anyway. My gut is telling me no, but I just couldn't say anything then.

I can't do it; I just can't! Kill him – that's impossible, completely out of the question. I'm a doctor. I save people. I do not help people die; I stop people from dying…or I try to, anyway. I'm not going to let him throw his life away like this. I don't care how hopeless he feels; there's no way that I can let him to do this to himself. I am not going to kill him. I refuse to do it. I will never do it. I don't care how much convincing it takes. He is not going to die on me.

I feel suddenly invigorated by this thought. Suddenly, there is movement. Suddenly, there is a reason to get out of my bed and do something. My resolve is set. I swing my legs over the side of the bed. It's just after ten o'clock and the moonlight illuminates the floor as I run to the bathroom. I quickly strip off my clothing and step into the shower. I wash myself as quickly as possible, washing away all the grime that has built up over the past two days. I am waking up my mind; I am clearing my head. I am going to the hospital now and telling him exactly what I think and nothing is going to stop me.

I park my car in the hospital parking lot half an hour later. My hair is damp around my shoulders; I did not take the time to blow dry it. I enter the hospital through the ER because that's the nearest entrance that's open. I flash my ID at the desk and they just nod. I dash up to his room and knock on the open door to announce my presence.

He turns to face me and I see his eyes widen ever so slightly when he sees that it's me. Maybe he was expecting Wilson, or maybe he's just pleased to see that I've returned after my absence. He nods to me and I take that as an invitation to enter. I walk to the foot of the bed and look him directly in the eye.

"The answer is no."

He blinks twice before letting out a low laugh. "Good god!" he exclaims. "It took you long enough to realize this – sex and work would have been too complicated anyway."

"House!" I let out a slow, even breath. "I'm serious."

"So am I."

I close my eyes, let out another breath, and then open them. "I'm sorry. I can't do it."

He clicks his tongue. "You've done it before." I catch the bitterness in his voice. He's disappointed in me.

"That's not the same thing!" I insist, but he cuts me off.

"It is the same thing. Just take the syringe, fill it, and plunge it. There's nothing hard about it."

"No!" I feel tears welling in my eyes. Doesn't he know how much it hurts me to hear him talk like this? Doesn't he know how painful it is to look at him this way? Doesn't he know how much I don't want him to die?

Doesn't he know how much I love him?

It feels so hopeless, so damn hopeless. I don't know what to do. I can't bear this anymore. I want to run from the room, but at the same time, I just can't tear myself away.

"House," I whisper. "House, please. Don't talk like that. Please don't. I know it's hard now, but there is – there is still hope…"

"You wouldn't even let a dog suffer this much." He laughs at me, a cold, bitter laugh. "I live in pain, nonstop pain. I can't move. I'm never going to get out of this bed. I have to pee in a cold bed pan that some nurse has to remove for me. My life has been reduced to nothing!" He's shouting now, and I feel the tears flowing even faster down my face. "I've lost almost all of my dignity. Can't you at least spare me what little of it I have left and just let me die?"

The tears fall freely now and I sink to the ground in despair. The sobs rack my body, and I just can't stop. He's so right; he's so, so right. My useless words of comfort seem even more pathetic than before. I just don't know what to do. I don't want him to suffer. I can't allow him to suffer. I love him too much to let him suffer this way. But what do I do? I don't know what to do! I don't want to do it, but I don't know what choice I have. He wants it, he wants it so badly, and I just don't know what else I can do.

"Go to the cabinet."

His voice shocks me. It's calm, it's collected; it's almost cold. He's rational and reasonable, and it's everything that I'm not right now. I am so lost, so confused. This is the only thing that makes sense. This direction, this command – go to the cabinet. This is something I can do. I can do little else, but this is something that I can do.

I do it.

"Take the syringe."

The syringes are in a box. I take one and feel its cool weight in my hand…I feel the smooth body with my fingertips…

"Fill it with morphine."

There's an extra sack of morphine on the counter for the next nurse to use when House's current supply runs out. I walk blindly to it…I fumble with the bag. It's smooth and slippery; it slips between my fingers. I finally manage to open it and I fill the syringe. I turn around to look at him.

His sleeve is already pulled up. He points with his left hand to his right arm. He doesn't have to say anything. I know what he wants me to do. I walk slowly over to him, tears falling so thickly, they blind me. My vision is so obscured, I can hardly see what I'm doing. I'm shaking so much, I can barely hold the syringe steady. I can't find the vein. My hands are shaking so much that they can't find the vein. I shake my head and try to steady myself.

"Focus, Cameron," he intones.

There. Found it.

I take a shaky breath and try to compose myself, but I just can't. I can't even conceive what I'm doing right now; I just have to do it. I can usually justify my actions to myself, but I don't know why I'm doing this. I feel myself pull back the syringe, ready to push it, I'm going to push it, and then -

"Cameron!" someone shouts. "What the hell are you doing?"