All it took was one well-remembered out-of-place comment and I realized just how close I came to losing the best friend I ever had. It was scary, very scary. The only thing I wasn't sure of was who it scared more–him or me.

Greg House was not a man who wore his emotions on his sleeve and spent a great deal of time keeping them in check. He would deny to the bitter end that something was wrong. Even now he had only brought up his frightening close-call because I demanded an answer. Well, I got my answer. Oh boy, did I ever get it. Yet he tried, and failed spectactularly, to make it sound like a brief error in judgement. This had nothing to do with judgment and everything to do with a pain that no drug could touch, the pain he couldn't deal with anymore. Greg was beyond hitting bottom. If he reached up he might be lucky to touch bottom.

He wanted to be held, so I held him. Usually it's the other way around, he likes to put his arm around my shoulder or wrap himself around me when he thinks I'm asleep. Today everything was an exception to Greg's seemingly spur-of-the-moment rules. All the checked emotions came roaring to the surface, he sobbed into my chest, trembling under my hands. I shed a few tears with him and for him.

Maybe I should have kept my mouth shut. Maybe I would have been better off not knowing. Then again, he wanted me to know. He just couldn't come out and say it. He was holding on for now, but how long before he reaches another breaking point?

I'm not better than the pain. But you are.

I was about to find out.

Eventually the raging flood within him began slow and calm. My shirt was soaked with his tears.

His breathing was hitched and ragged before finally smoothing out to something that resembled a normal, steady rhythm. He had to be drained, so I didn't bother with trying to talk with him just yet; I let him have all the time he needed to collected his nerves and his thoughts. I passed the time threading my fingers through his hair and trying to figure out what the hell to do next.

The television continued to play to the quiet room. The Young and the Restless was coming on. Both of us did a splendid job of ignoring it.

I heard mumbling. It was Greg. I asked him to repeat it.

"I don't deserve someone like you," he said, his face still half-buried against my chest like he was trying to hide, making his words jumbled and muffled.

That threw me for a loop, as if I needed another cryptic comment to puzzle over on top of everything else.

"Why do you say that?" I asked carefully, continued to play with his hair as if everything was just fine and dandy, neither of us having a care in the world. Yeah, right. If things ever got back to normal again we wouldn't know what to do with ourselves or each other.

"Because it's the truth." He turned his head to the side, but wouldn't look up at me.

"How so?"

"Anyone else would have left a long time ago without bothering to say good-bye and I wouldn't have blamed them in the least."

"Stacy left without saying good-bye, didn't she?"

"Yes."

"Do you want me to leave, Greg? Is that what you're trying to say?" I held my breath while waiting for his answer.

"No, I want to know why you stayed."

I relaxed and breathed again. If he had said yes I would have had a complete meltdown right there on the sofa and I would have taken him with me. "I want to be here. You know that."

"I suppose," he said with some trepidation, like he couldn't quite make himself believe it. "Don't you have a breaking point, Jimmy?"

"I'm sure I do." I thought about my little meltdown scenario and decided that he didn't need to ever know about that. He had enough on his mind already. "Everybody does. I just haven't found it yet." I knew what my breaking point was, it came packaged in a simple yes or no answer to a question about me leaving, but he didn't need to know that, either. Right now it was best to let him talk and try to figure out how to get him to accept the help he so badly needed. My breaking point hardly mattered.

"Liar," he said, but wouldn't elaborate on what he really meant by that. "You're such a lousy goddamn liar."

"Sorry."

"Save your fucking apologies. They're as bad as your lying." A few silent minutes ticked by before he said, "Aren't you going to say it?"

"What?" I knew exactly what he wanted me to say, but I wanted him to make the acknowledgment first.

"You know damn good and well what."

"No. Tell me."

"Fucking liar," he grumbled and sat up. His eyes were red, puffy and tired. "At least you're always good at telling the truth."

"Always?" I questioned.

"Always," my friend said with complete sincerity. "That's something I can always count on, especially when I really need to hear it."