No One Knew
Sure, everyone knew he was an addict. They all knew. Everyone knew he had troubles and problems so deep they left him with a non-refillable void. They knew he had practically nothing to live for. But no one knew he would resort to this. That he would feel he had no other way out. That the pill bottle would lay empty, a few inches away from his cold hand, just before Wilson walked in. That the only person House would stay for would be two minutes too late.
The note was simple, and just like House.
"I was just sick of it all. It wasn't your fault Jimmy. Don't blame yourself, because I know you will. I would have used a gun but I didn't have one and I know you wouldn't want to clean up the mess. Don't feel bad though, promise me. Bye Jimmy.
- Greg
And now they all sat in the pews, staring at the black casket, which radiated a slight gleam from the dim light of the church. It was ironic, in a sense, since he didn't believe in God.
The priest spoke those final words, but he may as well stood silent. No one could listen anyway. All they could do was stare at the casket and try to wish it wasn't him inside. Old patients paid there respects until only those who really, really, cared were left to say their last words.
Chase couldn't think during his whole silent trip towards him. He stopped a foot away from the casket and bowed his head, one solitary tear sliding down his cheek. He closed the gap between him and the casket. He slid his hand through is hair and exhaled deeply. He didn't really know what to say. He sniffled and bit back a whimper. Patting the casket, he whispered, "Thank you for everything House. I'm going to miss you." He placed the long stemmed, red rose atop the casket and walked away.
Foreman walked up next. He couldn't believe his eyes were tearing. He placed a rose on the casket gently. He grasped the edge of the casket's lid and shook his head. His lower lip trembled. "You've been great House. You've helped me so much, thanks for everything. I just wish I had the chance to say goodbye." He walked away briskly before he started really, really crying. That would come later, probably when he was in bed at night.
Cameron couldn't even bare to look. She fingered the stem of the rose as she walked towards the casket in a morose trance. She was sobbing uncontrollably. "God House, I still love you. I'm gunna miss you so much." She choked out. She took a deep breath, as if her heavy heart would be lifted by the gesture. No such luck. "Wherever you are," she continued despite her lack of air, "I hope your finally happy. Not suffering. I want you to know I wont forget you, and what you taught me." And with that, she placed her rose amongst the others and wiped the falling tears. She kissed the casket lightly, and walked away, praying this was all just a dream, or nightmare, and she would wake up any minute. She hopes and dreams didn't come true very often. This one didn't either. What a shock.
Cuddy couldn't believe it. She needed him. She would never look at a church, a motorcycle, the pharmacy, a cane, a rose, a funeral, a pill bottle, a pair of blue eyes, life, the same way ever again. Nothing. It would all changed with him gone. She wiped ferociously at the falling tears. She looked at the rose in her hands and just wanted to rip it and stomp on it and never look back; to have House insulting her again. She'd give anything for it. She placed her elbows on the casket and her face in her hands. She sniffed a few times. "Oh House." She said between sobs. "The hospital just wont be the same without you, you know that right?" She knew it was stupid to ask; he wouldn't answer, never again. The crying wouldn't stop. "I'm gunna miss you so much House. So damn much. What were you thinking?" She released a breathe she hadn't even realized she was holding. "I love you." She choked. "God, I just hope you're content wherever you are House." She muttered "I love you" a few more times before straitening up. She walked away, no matter how much she just wanted to drape herself over the casket, before she lost all control.
Wilson couldn't even breathe. There was no way his friend was in there. No way he was gone. He remembered the night he found House, and he thought about how if he just hadn't stopped for has beforehand, maybe, just maybe, he could have stopped him; could have saved him. He didn't believe a word in that note. It was his fault. And know he was walking towards a casket with the full knowledge of who was inside, worried glances shot in his direction. His shoulders slumped, very very thinning frame, pale skin, loosely hanging clothes on his skeleton-like body, bags under his eyes indicating many sleepless nights in House's, or correction, his apartment. He didn't really blame them; how could he? He trudged towards the casket. He tried to suck in a breath. His shaking hand placed the rose upon the casket. He wanted to say something. Anything, for House to know how he felt. He tried to compose himself, but his trembling body protested. He was too weak for this. He needed Greg. His knees finally gave out from the 'pressure.' He fell onto the floor; his attempts and staying up by grasping the casket failed. He was crumpled on the floor in one giant crying heap, his thinning body not able to take this. No words came from his trembling lips, no strength from his body to stand. No one knew what he was feeling, what he was going through. No one knew how close they were, how real, strong, and pure there love was.
No one knew.
But then again, who the hell knows anything anyway?
And then, even through the midst of it all, Wilson managed to give a half sob, half chuckle. That bitch Stacy couldn't even show her face. House would have had a ball with that one.