While his patient was back in the Quarantine Wing, Dr. House sat in his office. His feet were not propped up against his desk, he was not throwing a ball up into the air, and he was not listening to music. His blinds were closed, his lights off, and he sat there in the dark. Thinking.

It was as if he didn't know himself anymore. He had been faced with death numerous times today, and at first he felt unaffected. But that is why he was so deep in thought. He had been uncaring. Death did not scare him. He did not see his life flash before his eyes. He did not see a list of regrets. There was nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing?

Why was there nothing?

Dr. Wilson, as always, knocked and entered at the best possible moment. "House," he said. "You okay?"

House did not reply. He didn't look at Wilson; his eyes were fixed on something invisible, resting in the corner.

"You have a patient to treat still, you know. Spider-Man may have beaten Octopus, but he's still sick."

House reached for his cane and stood, brushing himself off of any remaining plaster that had been on his clothes from when Octavius threw him into the wall. He still couldn't believe he had been thrown into--and went through--a wall. How many people can say that? How many people would want to say that?

Without a word, House walked past Wilson and entered the halls. The lights hurt his eyes, and he had to adjust as he made his way. He hadn't seen his team in a while. "I'm glad they're worried," he said later. "Since I was, y'know, almost killed twice." He strolled by the scene where Octopus had fallen, and then he saw the hole in the wall. It didn't leave the hole in the shape of his body, like in the cartoons. A shame. That would've been funny. Maybe not at that time, given the circumstances, but later.

There were police everywhere. House had been asked to stop numerous times, but he wasn't really in a social mood. His eyes were fixed straight ahead of him; towards the Quarantine Wing. There was broken glass on the floor, glittering his path. A light fixture was broken, and it swayed from side to side, blinking.

House entered the Quarantine Wing without making eye-contact with a single person. He continued towards Spider-Man's set room, unsure of how things would be. He entered, and stopped in the doorway. His eyes were fixed on the bed, and at first he didn't understand. Spider-Man was not there.

Wilson had been following him, a little behind since he had been kind enough to stop for one of the officers. House asked, "Where is Octopus?"

Wilson shrugged.

House walked inside the room, and the first thing that he noticed was the trail of blood on the floor. House, even with a limp, took off.

After speaking with numerous police officers, House learned that Octavius had been moved. But by who? It was unknown. His whereabouts were unknown. Meaning, somehow, he was still here. And he had Spider-Man. No one believed House's theory, but he knew it. He just knew it. The blood on the floor belonged to Spider-Man.

He went back, following the trial with an armed officer, who he had persuaded to come with him. Octavius was angry and desperate. Maybe he wasn't thinking properly. Maybe he was irrational. Maybe he already killed him. The blood, instead of decreasing, was redder and redder. Thicker. Denser. Which meant that Spider-Man was bleeding out.

The blood then turned into a smeared trail; Octavius had dragged the body. The trail stopped at a door into a handicapped, one-person bathroom. The first thing House noticed was that the door was off one hinge. Quickly, House opened the door. Octavius was inside, all right, hovering over a body. The officer pulled his gun out, his hands shaking. Octavius heard the officer reload, and he lashed out and dove out of the bathroom. Octavius wasn't a fool: he had crashed through a window and left, not wanting to be arrested. House, out of the way, rushed inside the bathroom at that moment Spider-Man was lying in a pool of blood. He wasn't breathing.

A/N: In case you lovely readers haven't noticed, I need to get my creative juices flowing. I'm trying--I've just been so booked for time lately.