Chapter 11

One moment can change a person's life. Sometimes, all it boils down to is a second.

Life can turn on a dime, is what people say.

His own life had changed that way more than once. In hindsight, it had often seemed so obvious. And yet, at the precise moment when things changed, he hadn't had a notion of what was about to happen.

This wasn't one of those moments.

This was a crossroads he had seen from far away. He had traveled towards it, expecting to have some form of choice. Whether that was true remained to be seen. But either way, his life after today would be very different.

The call had come yesterday afternoon. It had taken Lorimer two days to work his magic. As predicted, Lorimer's PA had been the messenger.

"8.30 am, Mr. House. Please be on time."

It was early for him. Probably not early for the DA or any other regular person. She would want to get this over with before her real work day began.

The location didn't mean anything to him. As it turned out, it didn't mean anything to the DA either. This was rented office space. A desk, a phone, a couple of chairs. An anonymous space, no fear of bumping into familiar faces, no interruptions, no connections.

Smart.

His chair was uncomfortable. The edge of the seat dug painfully into the back of his thigh before they had even gotten through the introductions. House wondered if this was designed on purpose so people would spend less time in this place. It wouldn't work for him. He'd stay as long as it took.

He had no other choice.

This time, there would be no white knight in the shape of Wilson or Cuddy to bail him out. He would have to sit this out or admit defeat and walk away - back into Sam Aldersson's half-life.

House shifted his weight and hoped the DA's schedule was full and this wasn't her day off. The sooner this was over, the better.

Rosalyn Mercer was younger than he had expected, maybe six or seven years his junior. She was slim, with short graying hair in a well-maintained cut that probably required a visit to some top-notch salon every four weeks. Her eyes were almost the same color as her hair – steel. She wore dark green slacks, medium heels and an expensive blouse. The cut was simple, but the buttons gave it away. House guessed her to be 5'10" without the heels. A tall woman who oozed self-confidence. She had pulled her laptop and files out of her well-worn bag in one smooth motion and slapped them on the desk.

Every inch a pro.

Then she introduced herself and offered him a glass of water. He declined.

"I'd rather get this over with."

"Interesting. So would I." She settled down behind the desk. "I've made some inquiries, talked to a few people. And I read up on your case. Or cases, plural. Actually…" she flipped through a few pages, "this is a mess."

"There are some things you've probably heard about me that quite possibly could be true."

She looked up from her files. A no-nonsense look. She wasn't going to take any bullshit from him, Stacy had been right.

"Did you go into that warehouse to die, Dr. House?"

Straight to the heart of the matter. He had thought about this – on and off – for two years. "What's that got to do with anything?"

"It's got to do with the fact that I'm trying to understand what actually happened." She looked straight at him. "So, did you go in there to die?"

House didn't want to revisit that time. But he had no choice.

"No. I went there on a search."

"For what?"

Good question.

"Something. Anything. I didn't go in there with a death wish." He hesitated. "I was desperate, not suicidal."

He had never even admitted this to himself. He had been desperate for weeks before that trip to the warehouse. Losing Wilson had felt like a death sentence. Losing him while he sat in prison twiddling his thumbs would have been a thousand times worse. Desperate, yes. But he hadn't wanted to die.

"Do you want to elaborate?"

"No. I don't want to. But I guess I have to for you to understand, so you can go and give me my life back."

Rosalyn Mercer smiled. It was a nice smile. But it didn't quite reach her eyes.

"This guy – my patient…"

"Oliver Marsden."

"… yeah, Oliver. Whatever. He was… beyond help. But he was happy. He was sure, so sure. He knew…"

"He knew what?"

She really needed to stop interrupting him. "That was for me to find out."

The DA sighed. "You might as well be speaking in tongues, Dr. House."

How could anyone understand if he didn't understand it fully himself?

"He didn't care. About anything. He was happy."

"And that's what you wanted? To not care?"

Two bloody years and the answer was that simple after all. "Yes."

The DA nodded. "Okay, I think I get this. Your best friend was dying, and you thought you were going to end up alone and in prison for some stupid prank."

"Put like this, it sounds simple." He remembered it had been anything but at the time.

The DA shrugged as if to say, is anything ever as simple as it looks in hindsight?

"How did the fire start?"

"I don't know."

She didn't believe him. "You don't know?"

"I was out of it. He was out of it. And he was dead. I don't know."

She looked at a photocopy of something in her folder. "Investigations have found that sparks from a small malfunctioning heater of indeterminate origin might have fallen on some bedding or blankets on either the second or the third floor. On which floor were you and Oliver, Dr. House?"

"I don't know."

"Were there other people at the warehouse when you arrived?"

He was probably close to maxing out on his allowed 'I don't knows', so he tried to remember. Some shadows, voices. But nothing distinct.

"Not sure. Maybe. Oliver knew the place. He knew where he was going. Where we were going. Maybe he had been there before. I remember hearing voices when we arrived."

"How did you get there?"

That one was easy. "Cab. Some guy from Croatia drove us."

"You remember the driver was Croatian but you don't know which floor you were on?"

House shrugged. "The brain is funny in what it retains in times of stress. Just ask my last boss."

"I did. He said the same thing."

This was unexpected. "You've spoken to Foreman?"

"Did you think I'd go into this unprepared? That I'd just sit here and nod and let you off even if you had killed someone in that building before setting it on fire? Just because J. P. Lorimer asks me to?"

"Well, I didn't think he would just ask. And I imagine there were good reasons why you acquiesced to his… request."

Rosalyn Mercer smiled one of those not entirely nice smiles. "Indeed, there are. But neither are there as many nor are they as big as Mr. Lorimer would like to think."

This changed things considerably. His getting off the hook was no longer a given. In fact, it had never been. Stacy and Lorimer couldn't exactly dictate to the DA. He was still at the mercy of this woman.

"But let's get on with things. I have better things to do with my time. And I presume you don't exactly enjoy sitting here either."

"Fine with me. I'd prefer to stand for a while, though." He had to get up and move around or he'd end up getting a cramp that would take hours to resolve.

The DA threw him a questioning look but nodded eventually. "Do whatever you need to do. I'm afraid this office isn't exactly laid out for comfort."

It wasn't comfort he wanted. He wanted resolution. And quick.

So he got up and started to pace the room.

"Okay, let's move on then. What did you do once you were in the warehouse?"

They had shot up. For a second House wondered if admitting to using illegal drugs would make things worse for him.

Two steps to the door. Five to the left. Turn.

How much worse could things get?

"We shot up. Used heroin," he finally said.

"Where did it come from?"

Good question. "I don't know."

"Dr. House," the DA sighed. "You're a smart man. A lot smarter than most. If you don't know, you may use your brain. Deductive reasoning is allowed. This is not a trial."

"Oliver had it… no, he didn't have it in the hospital, we would've known." His team had searched him after someone had smuggled in drugs for him. "He must've picked it up either on the way or in the warehouse. We didn't stop on the way, so he got it after we arrived."

The DA nodded for him to continue.

"The elevator didn't work. The place was abandoned. He was a lot faster up the stairs than I was. He could've gotten it on his way up, from a stash he had there. Or from someone else."

House stopped pacing. He now stood right in front of the DA's desk. It had a dent in the front panel as if it had been kicked. Maybe someone had been impatient or upset with the person behind the desk.

"Okay, good. Where were you both when you… shot up?"

If only his memory weren't so full of holes.

"On the floor… there were some old blankets. They smelled bad. Musty." He hadn't cared. He had wanted what Oliver knew, what Oliver felt.

"Were you sitting together on one blanket?"

He knew where she was heading.

"Separate blankets next to each other. I think. It's a little hazy."

The DA nodded as if she understood. But how could she?

"Okay." She made a note in her files. "Did you each shoot up on your own?"

House took another step to the right. Four more to the wall.

"You do know what I'm asking, right?"

Oh yes, he knew. The thing was, he didn't know the answer. He turned when he reached the wall.

"I can't remember."

"Again, Dr. House, you're not helping yourself. Use your apparently so remarkable brain. Did you let Oliver Marsden inject you with heroin? Did you help him?"

Did he? Would there have been any need? The guy was an addict, for pity's sake. He didn't need help.

"No."

"No, what?"

Four steps to the desk. He stopped. Looked up.

"No, I didn't need help injecting. Neither of us did. I'm a doctor. He was an addict. He had probably handled a syringe as many times as I had."

No way would he have let the guy near his arm with a needle. And now that he remembered that part, he also remembered that he made sure to be the first to use the syringe. He suddenly recalled Oliver's knowing look, the grin on his face when House had insisted on going first.

"You're sure about this part, Dr. House?"

Damn sure. "Yes."

"Good."

He hadn't been aware of it, but until now he'd had doubts about his part in Oliver's death. Things were a lot clearer now.

"And when did you discover that Oliver was dead?"

"When I woke up." When I came to after shooting up heroin. Damn.

"Did you try to resuscitate him?"

House shook his head. "No point. He'd been dead a while when I woke up."

Considering that Oliver had experience with heroin, they had used the same stuff and House hadn't overdosed, it was likely that Oliver had chosen to go out with a bang.

The DA gave him a quizzical look. "What are you thinking?"

"Not sure… I mean, the guy knew heroin. He was a pro. We used the same stuff. Even accounting for me being extra cautious when I calculated my dose – and I don't think I was - it's unlikely he accidentally overdosed."

"What are you saying, Dr. House?"

House shrugged. She could draw her own conclusions.

"Are you saying he committed suicide?"

"It's impossible to know for sure. He thought he was dying. So did I, for a while. I never figured out what was really wrong with him. Some of the possible diagnoses would've been fatal and killed him either pretty fast or very slowly. When we left, I was under the impression he would return with me after… our trip. I expected to solve this case later but I never did."

"So you were, what? Disappointed when you found he was dead?"

He gave up on pretense and evasion. "Pretty much."

She looked as if she was going to ask more but then thought better of it. Whoever she had spoken to had probably told her he didn't care much for people, that solving the case was his priority.

"And then what?"

"Then I noticed the fire."

The DA nodded and opened the second file. House tried to read the contents but there were no labels, no headers, only photocopies with small print he couldn't decipher.

She took her time flipping through some pages, checked her watch and finally looked up.

"I think we both could do with a break. I'll see you back here in an hour."

And just like that, he'd been dismissed.

House hesitated. He didn't like this. But this was her show. His chances were slim enough; he would be mad to jeopardize everything now.

So he left.

Outside in the corridor, he paused.

What was he supposed to do now?