"No!"
Cameron's yell comes only seconds before the gunshot explodes and the ringing sound echoes in the closed glass room.
She flings herself to the side, left foot tripping over the right as her body presses his against the transparent wall; for an instant, only. Then his hands are on either side of her waist, strong and desperate. Even as his leg shakes—slumping sideways—he is gripping her to him and spinning them both around. Bending over her.
Her back is safe against his stomach and chest, and his back is exposed and vulnerable to the man with the gritted teeth and the twisted face and fingers pulling the trigger.
House jerks forward, then, as the bullet ruptures inside of him. It makes him straighten, so she straightenes, the pressure forcing her front to hit the glass with his arms still clamped around her middle.
At some point, there must be the clatter of his cane on the floor. Cameron's second scream, however muffled against the wall, must come within a moment of the shot. It must be loud, and pained, and horrified. There must be voices, after; there must be people. Sirens. Scuffling. Nurses panicking.
But she hears none of it. There is just a yell, a click, an explosion, House grunting in her ear as he turnes them. Another grunt as the bullet hits him and he thrusts against her. Then nothing. Just the shot, still ringing in her ears.
There was beeping, now, though. A beep of the monitors which she watches, a beep of a pager which she ignores. And always the beep, beep, beep which means the thump, thump, thump of his pulse. His heart.
Both of her white hands holds his limp left one, her chair scooted a little away from his bed so she can lean forward, arms straight and head bent between her elbows as he sleeps.
One of the orderlies asks her if she's praying. She doesn't answered him. She doesn't hear him.
There is still only the ringing. And sometimes, her crying.
But always the beep, beep, beep; the thump, thump, thump of his heart.