It didn't help that on the weekend before his surgery he had a visitor – someone he had been avoiding since he'd fallen sick. Wilson had successfully managed to convince her not to visit, that House was doing fine, but the nurses were talking about how down he was and she couldn't help but wonder if her turning up would help him pull himself out of the depression.
"Hello, Greg," she said, pulling the sliding door shut as she entered the room. She was shocked to see how sick House looked, he was having his daily dose of chemo and he looked pale, thin and pretty much like a cancer patient. She'd hoped that he wouldn't look that bad, then maybe she could have convinced herself that Wilson and all the other tests had been wrong. House couldn't have cancer, she couldn't bear it.
"Hello, Stacy," House murmured, wishing that he could close his eyes and she would just disappear. He felt pretty awful as it was without throwing her into the mix.
"How are you feeling?"
"Just peachy," House snapped. "I normally spend my days throwing up."
"I wanted to come before, but Wilson advised against it."
"Why did you come now?"
"I had to see you, I had to know that you were okay."
"Why?"
"Because no matter how angry you make me, I still love you," she half-whispered.
"Go away," House replied, shutting his eyes and praying that the dull aching of his head would disappear along with her. When he opened his eyes she was still there – as was his headache – and she'd moved closer to him, close enough to grasp his hand if she wanted. He didn't want that.
"Greg…"
"GO AWAY," House shouted, before cradling his head with his hands. Dammit, she was making the pain worse.
"You have to start eating, you have to pull yourself out of this depression and fight this. I couldn't bear to lose you," she told him, half-crying. House rolled onto his side, ignoring her and trying to will the pain away.
"Leave me alone," House told her, praying she'd leave. Where was Wilson? Why wasn't he here? Why wasn't he protecting him? When was his next dose of medication due? Could he last that long?
"Greg, listen to me. You have to fight this, you can't refuse surgery, I couldn't bear it, not to see you like that again."
"Only this time you couldn't go behind my back and let them cut half my leg off," House snapped, curling up tighter in a bid to ease the cramping in his stomach. He felt like shit, he was going to throw up – damn chemo.
He could feel her approaching him and she wanted to tell her to back off and leave him alone, but he couldn't find the words. He thought about pressing the buzzer and getting a nurse to tell her to leave but that would mean moving and he couldn't face that.
"Greg, are you in pain? Do you need me to get Wilson?" she asked, finally seeing that there was something wrong with him.
"Leave me alone," Greg snapped.
"I'm gonna get a doctor or something, they shouldn't let you be in this much pain," she said, rubbing his shoulder. He withdrew at the contact, Christ, even Ithat/I hurt. What the hell was going on?
He heard her leave and he couldn't tell how long she was gone before she returned with someone. It was Foreman.
"House? Give me a number," he said, approaching the bed cautiously.
"Go away," House replied. He didn't want Foreman, he wanted Wilson, he wanted him to be there, to comfort him, to push the drugs. Where the hell was he?
Foreman fished out his penlight and lifted House's eyelids to check his pupils. "Leave alone," House murmured, batting the bright light away. He should have known what was going to happen, should have sensed it, but he didn't, he didn't guess what was coming and even as it gripped him and carried him away he still didn't work it out.
All he heard was Foreman say, "get Wilson. Get him NOW." Then there was nothing, just a bright light and the pain was gone.