21.

"Oh God. Oh God," Wilson said. "Look at his leg. It looks like it's been through a meat grinder." He turned his head, speaking to the others in the room. "Get me the Propofol! Stat!"

"No!"

Two voices had spoken at once. But it was not only House who'd raised an objection.

"Cuddy," Wilson began, rubbing his forehead with his free hand. "You heard what Henreid said. And you know he won't survive another surgery to try to put this jigsaw puzzle of a leg back together again. It will have to be immediately amputated to save his life."

"No," House said weakly.

"No," Cuddy said again. "Not this time." She lowered her voice. She was amazed at how steady it sounded. "We're not going to force a surgery on him that he doesn't want even if we think it's for his own good. This time we're going to let House decide what happens to his body, to his leg."

"But Cuddy . . ." Wilson started to argue.

"No dammit!" Cuddy said, more loudly than before. "If I've learned anything from past mistakes, at least I've learned that. We're not keeping him out of the loop as if her were a child. Not again. Not this time."

Cuddy turned to address the staff, "No propofal for Dr. House. Not yet." She turned back to face Wilson. But as she did so, she glanced down at House. "This is one decision about his leg that WON'T be made while he's asleep. This time, House gets to choose for himself what the medical course will be. Understood?"

Everyone in the room was stunned into silence. Those few that could, nodded their heads but were still too shocked to speak.

Cuddy leaned forward over House whose eyes remained closed. Still holding his left hand, she gently caressed his long, elegant fingers with her thumb. She moved closer until she was inches away from his ear so that she could talk quietly to him and so that only he and Wilson, who stood close to House's other side still clasping his right hand, could hear.

"House? Can you hear me?"

House hummed his acknowledgment.

"How's the pain?"

"Scale of one to ten?" he said in a gasp. "I'd say about 15."

"Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Yes."

"It's your leg House," Cuddy said, her voice now shaking, "It's your decision."

He had her.

By God, if he'd believed in one . . . here, at last, after all that he'd gone through and suffered in his life, finally he'd been given the opportunity to set things right. Finally, God or fate or destiny or just pure luck had stacked the deck in his favor.

It was about damn time.

He'd heard what Wilson said, knew in his heart that he almost certainly would not survive another hours-long surgery. Wilson had mentioned even Doctor Henreid confirmed that fact.

What was more, House himself felt more keenly the weakened condition of his body. He knew in the marrow of his bones how close he'd already come to death and how close he still was to that final sleep that would take all his pain away.

House embraced the idea.

At the same time as death would release him from his tortured existence it would also bring about the irrevocable defeat of the one person who'd shattered him by breaking his heart. By dying, House would finally have his revenge on Lisa Cuddy.

He could hear it in her voice. Imagine it, for he had not yet opened his eyes, in the expression on her face. But this was the one thing, the final thing, power-hungry Cuddy could not control. House was now entirely on his own, far outside the realm of her rule. No permission or entreaties or even apologies were necessary. Cuddy had said it was up to him. He could exercise the option designed to give him the least painful outcome. As it stood now, death was that alternative.

And he could do it too. He could free himself from the pain of this life, finally be freed of the strangulating hold Cuddy had over him. Like scissors cutting a ribbon, House imagined himself free of everything, of all the despair, hurt and heartbreak he'd had to endure. For one pure moment, he could find release, relief, before the blackness of the void overtook him.

But not vengeance alone would his death serve upon Cuddy. In his own strange way House would also be setting her free. Just as he would at long last be liberated from his pain, she would finally be released from the burden his unwavering love had placed upon her. Cuddy could, and no doubt finally would move on with her life. She could finally be happy.

And the idea that he could at long last make the woman he loved happy was the best reason for his own death.

Out of pain, selflessly releasing the woman he loved but with just a touch of payback thrown in . . . except for the fact that he himself would be dead, it was almost the perfect scenario. What did his fears of death, that undiscovered country, matter in the face of so much to be gained?

Though still in incredible pain, House felt like laughing.

"Fix it," he said, straining to keep the ache from his voice.

"What?" Wilson asked, sure he hadn't heard his friend correctly. "House, it can't be fixed. It's mangled, worse than before. Another surgery that long would . . ."

"Fix it!" House repeated. "No amputation."

"House, you almost didn't survive the first surgery," Cuddy interrupted. "You'll never survive another patch-up attempt. It will take too long. Besides, you can't take the anesthesia and your heart's too weak."

House opened his eyes and looked directly at Cuddy. She gasped at the utter despair, the fluid emotion that she saw deep within his silver-edged cobalt gaze.

"I know exactly," House said, "what condition my heart is in." His eyes connected so profoundly with hers, with such meaning and intensity, she swayed and had to struggle for a few seconds to remain upright.

"My heart's already dead. It's been dead." he continued. "It just doesn't know it yet." House closed his eyes again. "Another surgery on my leg will rectify that situation."

"Is that was this is all about?" Wilson said. He dropped House's hand like it was a hot coal. "You taking your revenge? On who? On me? On Cuddy? On . . ."

"Did it ever cross your mind that maybe I'm the only one around here who deserves revenge? Maybe for just this once it's not about you OR Cuddy. Maybe this is justice. Maybe this is the ultimate penalty for a life poorly lived. Or maybe, just maybe, this is the way things were always meant to be."

Wilson exhaled, the force of his breath sounding harsh as he expelled it between his clenched teeth. "So that's it?" he asked, his voice quaking with rage. "You know what you're risking here. You know what this means. You're choosing . . . you're making us accomplices in your suicide? Is that it? This is what you want?"

House opened his eyes again, this time directing his gaze at his furious best friend. A look of unutterable sympathy for Wilson crossed his features as he said,

"You can't always get what you want."

"But House," Cuddy said. "We're talking about your life."

House looked to Cuddy again. "Is that what we're talking about?"

"Yes," she said. "Yes." The tears rose quickly to her eyes. "And this is only a leg. It's just a damn leg. You don't think you deserve . . . to live?" Her voice cracked as she said this last and House saw the tears flow down her cheeks.

Somehow he kept his own tears in check as the terrible heartbreak of hearing and saying the exact same thing to the only two women he'd ever loved was brought to fruition. Echoes of the past surrounded him, swirling like insects in a summer wind.

"It's my leg. It's my life."

"I can't," Wilson said. "I can't be a party to this."

House reached out and brushed his fingers against Wilson's arm. Wilson looked at him in surprise.

"It's okay Wilson. I understand. You have to do what you have to do . . . and so do I."

Wilson nodded his head and then, totally defeated, dropped his chin to his chest. Without another word, he turned and shuffled from the room.

House looked at Cuddy once more. Her tears streamed unabated down her face.

"You understand, don't you? It's what I want, the only thing left . . . that I can have."

Cuddy nodded and then turned to the staff still standing behind her.

"Prep him for surgery," she said before she too walked slowly from the room.