Every word you never said

Echoes down your empty hallway

And everything that was your world

Just came down

--Matchbox 20, "The Difference"

"Scalpel."

I've been told I'm good in crisis situations. I should be—I'm a doctor. But I guess one of the things they like about me is the fact that I can be dispassionate—objective—when treating a patient. Or at least I attempt to be. All I can do, now, though is watch.

This is Gregory House lying before me on this table. I've treated him before, but seeing him laying here like this—it makes me want to scream. I've never been good at expressing frustration. I usually take it out on poor, helpless tennis balls and unsuspecting match partners.

I can do this surgery, but Steve Grossman is the best ER surgeon in the state. I probably would be a bumbling mess—the ER is not my favorite place.

"Scissors."

Steve and I date every now and then. The sex is good (House is right about the whole sexual harassment issue, but dating an ER doctor does have its perks—like now). One time, playing tennis, we were discussing the merits of working in the ER. I asked him, with incredulity in my voice, how he could like dealing with all the terrible emergencies. He told me he loves the excitement and the adrenaline rush.

I imagine you just have to be that type of person, then.

We've always tried to protect him from himself. From the Vicodin his body became addicted to and the alcohol his mind told him he needed. We tried to protect him from break-ups and heartbreak, but we never could. It is an inside joke between Wilson and I—how miserably we fail at protecting him.

It's been 54 minutes since he was beaten up and he looks no better. I'm attending this surgery, but I'm not being asked to help. These doctors respect my position, but they don't think I should be in here watching over even their most infinitesimal moves. It makes them nervous. But they'll be more nervous if the screw up on House and have to feel my wrath. Steve knows this and will occasionally glance to me.

Unconsciously, I guess I have always cared for House. You start to care for people with whom you squabble. He's a pain in the ass, yes, but he's a damn good doctor and I won't lose him because of some bar fight.

Cameron's frightened face, more than House's bloodied one, is the image stuck in my mind. Her eyes are wide and frightened. I can see the question in her eyes that she will never ask aloud: why do people I love die?

I am not one for weak women; they test my patience, since I fashion myself as a strong one. But Allison Cameron is different. She's a walking contradiction; she can be strong, but she falls back to being less than brilliant when dealing with men she wants to date. She's confused.

I think I hear dogs barking. It's a sudden thought and I whisk it out of my head quickly. Dogs barking? In an emergency room? Jesus Christ, Lisa.

But I know why I can hear the dogs bark. Just like Clarice sees the sheep, I hear the dogs. I have always been afraid of dogs, ever since I was little girl. One chased me, almost bit me, and I never again could trust a dog. When my mother died, I heard the cacophony of barking from dogs. My mother was a cat person.

I shake my head at the incoherent thoughts. As a psychologist once told me I drift because I can't come to terms with the death of someone close to me. Did I mention I have a deep hatred of psychologists and their five-cent pop psychoanalyses?

God, I fought to keep him during Vogler's rampage. I put my career on the line to save his ass. Wilson did the same thing, but that's Wilson. My heart's not as pure as Wilson's is, so it doesn't matter.

He can't die. Who will harass me about my low-cut shirts? Who will use that extra money in the "House legal fund?" Who'll be Wilson's Costello to his Abbot? Who will make Cameron blush? God, who'll be House?

"Needle."

There are things in this profession I detest as much as anything else. If you ask me to make a list of the things I despise about medicine the first thing on the list would be that you cannot save every patient. Is House another one of those hopeless patients?

I believe in God, but I don't know if he's benevolent or not. We're supposed to learn lessons from this life, but where are we supposed to use them? In the afterlife? I don't have enough faith to not be afraid of death; death frightens most people and I'm no exception.

If House goes like this, I know what people will say. He just couldn't control himself. Cuddy got lucky; she's rid of a major problem. Good doctor, pain in the ass guy, though.

There's his mantras running through his head, most notably everybody lies. I can't remember if it's "everybody" or "everyone." Memory's funny like that. So, if everyone lies, can't God lie? Can't these damn doctors with the grim faces lie about his condition? Damn it! I can lie to myself about everything else, but why can't I lie now?

Because I promise that I will tell Cameron and Wilson and the others the truth—when (not if, now) he dies. I'm a realist with some fatalist qualities. I remember Dale Earnhardt's crash most vividly. I heard it on my car radio on the ride home from Point Pleasant—the end of a beach-filled weekend. The first thoughts that flitted through my mind? He's dead. I root for people to die because it makes my life more interesting. Because it has an impact. Because those barking dogs never stop.

Wilson should be in here. If House has a constant, it's James. James Wilson with his taste for women and bitter men comforts Greg more than Greg wants to admit.

"Clamp."

I stand with my arms crossed in the corner of the room, waiting for Steve to tell me if he needs something from me. I'm probably a bother, but he won't ever tell me that. The sex is too good.

So, I watch as these doctors move around me trying to save a man many of them do not like. And that is why I stand here.

They must save House.