Chapter 8

After Hours

8 May (Two Weeks Later)

[TRIGGER WARNING : DEATH]

I throw on my pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt and swing the bathroom door open to find Rachel jumping on the bed. Her eyes meet mine and she pauses. She's waiting for me to say something. Cuddy would scold her. I just dry my hair with the towel and continue into the room. She resumes bouncing, the mattress creaking.

My wallet's not on the bedside table. Not on the floor, not on the dresser. I check my jeans on the rack in the bathroom. Not there. I know I took it out before my shower. It's no where in sight.

I look at Rachel again from the doorway. She stops. There's a certain glint in her eye.

"Did you move my wallet?"

She glances to either side before answering nonchalantly. "No."

"Well, seeing as how I know where I put it," I begin, limping over to the bed. "And wallets can't get up and walk..." I lift her by the sides to bring her to eye level. "...and you're the only one here..."

A smile breaks across her face under my intense stare. "I dropped it."

"Might I ask where?" I set her back on the mattress, sitting this time.

"Back there." She points to the wall behind the headboard.

Great. "Wallets aren't for playing with." I crouch and peer under the bed. Too dark. Have to move the whole thing. I grip the sides of the frame, Rachel watching.

"Is it heavy?"

"For someone your size." With a grunt, I pull backwards. The bed slides a few inches. Searing heat shoots through my thigh. Cramp. Shit. Too late. The muscle gives out. I fall to the floor.

"Are you okay?" Rachel swings her legs above me.

"Yeah." I brace myself against the bed frame and stand. Must've distributed the weight wrong. Need another dose. It's not working fast enough.

I fetch my wallet from the crevice. It's easier pushing the bed back than it was pulling it.

"You should brush your teeth." I head into the bathroom for my backpack. It's on the hamper. I wasn't going to leave that out with Rachel.

"Do I have to?"

"Yeah, otherwise your Mommy will find something heavy and hit me repeatedly. It's almost bed time," I call, unzipping the bag.

"Really? She'll do that?"

"Yup."

"Oh no." She patters off to get her toothbrush from the hall bathroom.

The vial's empty. Looks like we'll be making a late evening visit to the lab first.

"Dr House...?" Riggin rolls his stool out from his desk, squinting at Rachel as I lead her into the lab.

"My babysitter wasn't answering her phone."

"Oh, um... okay."

Riggin's eyes flit to Rachel every couple of seconds as she stares at the rats, the microscopes, the computers. "As long as she doesn't touch anything."

"So, I figured you'd be wrapping up the trial and wanted to congratulate you personally."

Rachel's hand slides from mine and she steps up to one of the rat cages.

"What's his name?"

"Um... specimen 18." Riggin hurries over, nudges her arm away. "Don't touch the rats, please."

"That's a funny name."

He frowns at me. Clearly, I'm supposed to have her on a leash.

"So, what's next?" I grab Rachel's hand again. "The Nobel Prize?"

"Yeah... about that..." Riggin looks at the other rat cages. "Unless they're thinking of awarding it for developing an incredibly expensive poison, it's not very likely."

There's a sinking feeling. My heart rate spikes. I don't let it show. "What do you mean? What happened?"

He fetches a scan from a drawer and presents it. A dozen or so bright spots against the dark, it's clear before he says the next word. "Tumours."

"Did you give them medicine?" Rachel asks.

Riggin flashes her a dismissive glance, then moves the scan. "Just look at these things."

I shift my weight off my bad leg. "Any indication the rats were getting sick?"

"Just some cramping." He puts the scan back in its folder, then back in the drawer of his desk. "Their legs would stiffen up. They started having trouble moving around." The drawer slides closed. "We thought their bodies were adjusting to the increase in muscle mass, but within a day or so, they just started dying."

"That's sad," Rachel says.

"Sure is." I try to sound unconcerned.

"Yeah." Riggin returns to us. "But we've got a new compound to play with next week."

And that's it. Good news for the trial. Not for me.

"You're going in that?" Rachel peers at the MRI.

"Yup." I pass her my cane.

"Why?"

"Need to take a picture of my leg." I climb on, lie down.

"Why? Does it hurt?"

Worst part about her talking now. The endless questions.

"Cameras take pictures," she announces after a moment, hands on her hips, giving me a look like she's lecturing an idiot who believes eating mouldy bread is the same as taking antibiotics.

"This is like a big camera. Only it shows your insides." I press the button.

"Eww." She scrunches her face as the tray whirs and reels me into the tube.

Once it clicks into place, the machine starts. I hold still.

Woosh. Woosh. Woosh. Woosh. Woosh.

"That's noisy!" Rachel calls.

Woosh. Woosh. Woosh. Woosh. Woosh.

After a few more moments, it stops and the tray whirs back out.

"All done?" Rachel's curious stare greets me on the outside. She extends my cane.

"All done." I take it.

"That wasn't so bad." She puts her hand out again, open this time, expecting mine. It's becoming a habit. I realise that as I let her tiny fingers wrap around my much larger ones.

"Now what?" she asks.

"We get the pictures and go home." I lead her into the control room.

"Then what?"

"We get you to bed," I add, glancing at her. "And you don't tell Mommy."

She smiles. "Okay."

The scans are loaded on the screen. Exactly like the rats. Three white masses glaring in contrast to the dark. So much for an alternative to Vicodin or oxy.

There's a squeeze at my fingers. "Is something the matter?"

'Yes' would be an understatement. But I can't say that. Even if she weren't three years old. There's only one thing I can do now. Try to fix it.

"We're gonna make a little stop at the pharmacy first," I say finally. "Remember... this is our little secret."

"Okay," she answers in cheerful compliance.

It's going to be a long night.

I shift in the tub, surface cool against my legs. All the necessary tools are laid around me. I consult the scan a final time, comparing the location of the masses to the swath of iodine on my skin. Should be able to do it with a single incision.

"Miss me?" Amber lifts the handle of the scalpel and lets the blade scrape across the tray.

My eyes flick to the emptied syringe of morphine.

"Funny, isn't it? How I'm back not ten minutes after you shot up."

Not gonna talk to her. She's not real.

"Think it's really the drugs? Could be... or maybe not. Maybe it's just whatever makes sense to you."

Scratch. Scratch.

Metal on metal provokes a cringe response I can't control.

"Either way," she says, "with all the stupid stunts you've pulled, your brain is fried, wiring permanently altered."

Scratch. Scratch.

I rattle out two oxycodone onto my palm, pop them in my mouth. I can't risk any more. I wash it down with a gulp of gin that burns its way down my throat.

Scratch. Scratch.

My jaw clenches. Gotta do this quick. I snap on the gloves. Quick and precise. I rip the scalpel from Amber's hand.

"Wow. In such a hurry to carve yourself like a Christmas ham."

The blade's poised above the target. Here goes. I will myself to focus on the lingering burn in my chest and not the ripping of the blade sinking in, red pushing out.

Snap. There's a sting at the back of my neck. The cut veers off. "Dammit!"

Amber takes a step back, eyes flaring. She twirls the tourniquet in her hand.

"Get out! Get the hell out!"

Her lips curve. "Sorry. This is just too delicious."

Something halfway between a heat and a heavy weight wraps itself around me and constricts. She can't get to me. I won't be helpless.

I force a hard swallow and pry the skin apart. Gory sinew. My teeth dig into my lip to keep me from crying out. My muscles tighten, every breath shallow and trembling. Morphine wasn't enough.

"Maybe you should've loaded a syringe full of fentanyl. If you nodded off, or OD'd, no big deal, right? We both know death is starting to look really attractive."

"Death is meaningless," I grunt out. "Life is all there is."

"Oh, right... even when Cuddy is gone?"

I force my fingers in against the gushing blood, against the explosion of agony that wrenches me about despite every effort to hold still. Gotta get through this. Gotta get through. Chanting in my head keeps the groans soft.

"If I wanted to die, I'd leave the tumours in!"

"Nah, too slow and miserable." She stretches out the tourniquet, lets it snap back.

Something solid. I shift the mirror. There it is. Feet digging into the sides of the tub, I brace myself for the cut.

"You're hoping this fails. After all, reckless surgery isn't suicide."

"If I wanted to die..." I throw a scowl at her, muscles tensed. "Why the hell would I care if it's suicide?"

"I dunno... somewhere in that tangled web of a psyche, there's a shred of concern."

I dig the scalpel in. The pressure builds. My eyes close. An involuntary sound wells up. I catch it in my throat, push it out as a string of hitching breaths.

Snap. She flicks the rubber again. "For Wilson, maybe?" Snap. "But that's oddly hypocritical because motives don't matter, right? Only results. The pain for Wilson would be the same, regardless of how or why."

"I'm not killing myself!" I manage, shaking. The blade slides through the last strand of tissue holding the mass in place. It squishes loose. I drop the scalpel to the surgical tray with a clang.

That's it. My muscles release. The rending, twisting pain is down from an eleven to an eight. I've got it. I rip it out and flop it into the other tray.

"Congrats." Amber claps mockingly.

Not done yet. A few long breaths of reprieve is all I can offer myself. Too long and I'll lose my nerve. I tense again, thrust my finger back in my leg before I can think about hesitating. Back to eleven.

"You're not killing yourself yet," she says. "But you will."

"Life is all there is!" I push out again, half choked, groping through the tissue.

It's all I can do to keep my eyes open and on the mirror. They want to clamp shut or go sideways. And I can't see for the blood. I adjust the angle. Flecks of red drip from my glove onto the glass. Shit. It's getting on everything.

"Life is pain," Amber corrects. "And once Cuddy is gone, you won't want to endure that pain any longer. You're too selfish to hang on for Wilson. Deep down you know that." Snap.

Hard mass. Finally."She's... not... going to die!" I cut, shaking, jerking, panting, sweating, nearly in tears.

Splat. Into the tray.

Another flick of the tourniquet. "Impressive. I thought for sure you'd pass out after the first one."

It's a torrent now, gushing from the wound, starting to fill the tub. My heel's plugging the drain. Guess it moved there at some point. I shift. The blood gulps and gurgles down, leaving a thin layer of red in its wake.

"How much do you think you've lost?" Amber's voice grates. "One liter? Two?"

"Shut up," I huff. My body burns from strenuous effort, muscles weak, heart racing, head thumping. What the hell was I thinking? This was stupid.

No, it was logical. The only thing I could do. The masses were close to the surface, fairly small, like removing a wart. Two down, only one to go. I have to finish.

"Going for another round? Nice."

I focus the mirror where the next one should be. The pain peaks to a staggering high with the plunge of my fingers. I reel against the tub. Can't find it. I can't find it.

"What will Cuddy think when Rachel discovers you here exsanguinated?"

"Not... gonna happen." Darkness creeps in at the edges of my vision as the room starts to spin. The scalpel turns heavy in my hand, slides from my grasp and clatters beside me. Shit.

"Uh-oh." Amber scoops up the scalpel and twirls it. "Looks like you're running out of time."

I've lost too much blood. I can't do this.

I grope for my phone amongst the assorted crap. The bottle of oxy tips over, rolls off. The bottle of gin next. It shatters and splashes against the tile.

"Too bad I can't help you, huh?" Amber becomes a looming blur.

Finally my fingers land on the right shape. The hazy digits of saved contacts are on the screen.

"Hmm... who to call? Wilson, right?" she muses. "No, don't want him to see this."

Hesitation lasts only a second. I press down.

"Interesting choice."

Ring. Ring. Ring.

I focus on my breathing, slow, steady. Gotta stay awake.

"A little busy right now." Thirteen's voice pours from the speaker, oddly tired. There's talking in the background. Can't quite make it out. Sounds like Chase. And Cameron. And someone else.

"So am I." I grunt.

"Really not in the mood for your games tonight."

"I need..." So hard to say. But there's no time. "Need your help," I manage between ragged breaths.

"Priceless," Amber taunts.

"Wait, are you serious?" I don't need to see Thirteen's face to know the expression she's making. "What's going on?"

"Just get over here." I grab the towel off the rack, push it down on the bleeding. "Cuddy's place. Now."

The tiles, the tub, the sink, all the shapes in the room meld together. The sensation of the soaked towel fibres hard against my palm and the gnawing ache are the only things holding me here.

There's pounding. No. Running.

"Oh my God." A figure races towards me.

"Amber? Go away," I mutter, eyelids drooping.

"House, it's me." The blur clears enough for Thirteen's face to come into focus. "What the hell were you doing?"

"Tumours." I fumble for the scan, hold it up. "Seems... neither of us... has luck with experimental drugs."

She kneels beside the tub and moves the towel up to examine the wound. "You've lost a lot of blood." She presses it back, takes my pulse. "We need to get you to the ER now." She stands, pulling out her phone.

"No." I jolt against the tub. I beg her with my eyes in a way I can't with words. "Finish it."

"Are you insane?" Her face lights with a genuine and undisguised astonishment. "This isn't an OR. You're going into shock."

"Already got two out of three." I roll my head towards the metal tray with the globs of flesh inside. "Only one to go," I say. "It's right there." I raise my arm enough to point a half-limp hand. "You can get it."

She's still, quiet.

"I don't..." I try to catch my breath, leaning my head back against the wall. "...want anyone else to know."

She sighs. "No time to argue."

She takes a few steps towards the sink. I expect her to dial 911. She hurriedly scrubs down, grabs a clean towel and comes back. "Might wanna bite down on this." She passes it to me, bends to fetch the scalpel. Her eyes lock with mine in some sort of unspoken understanding.

"What were..." A reflexive grunt pushes out of me as she presses the towel harder to buy time to glance at the scan. "...you doing when I called?"

"It's complicated." She drops it to the end table, pulls up the towel, revealing my blood covered leg and drenched boxers.

"Got plenty of time to listen," I manage before I shove the cloth in my mouth. The stab of her fingers makes me bite down and tense against the tub.

She works fast, but careful. "Cellmate from prison showed up at my door," she says. "In a condition similar to you, as a matter of fact. Bleeding out from a knife wound."

Can't really consider her words, but I want her to keep talking. I need her to. Pressure builds in every muscle again, fresh sweat trickling down my face and back.

"Yeah, you're not the first one to refuse the hospital tonight." She glances over. "Needed to check for clots, so I had Chase bring me the portable ultrasound. We didn't find anything."

The scalpel slices through. I shake, muffled grunts pouring into the fabric clenched between my teeth.

"Got it." She draws out the mass. There's a wet flop as it joins the others in the tray.

I spit out the towel. A brief release. A few long breaths punctuate the stream of quick, shallow ones. I can't say anything.

Thirteen wastes no time and flurries to suture the opening. I jolt at each prick of stitching run through my skin, but my eyelids are drooping again. Blackness closes in. So tired.

"Come on, you've gotta stay awake," she says. "House? Stay with me."

"House!"

The last thing I hear is her calling my name.

"I promised her!" Thirteen's voice seeps into my head again.

I'm not dead. Blankets tangle around me. My eyes creep open, bleary. The bedroom. How did she get me here? How long have I been out? The digits come into focus. 1:35. There's a line in my arm. A blood bag and fluids hanging from a stand beside the bed. She made a jaunt to the hospital and back.

Shoes in the hall. The door's open. It's Thirteen stomping back and forth. She doesn't speak for several moments. She's on the phone. Must be Chase on the other end.

She stops in front of the doorway this time, notices I'm awake.

"I've gotta go. Call me back if anything changes." She clicks before he can argue.

Breath hisses in my ear. Amber is lying on top of the blanket, half-curled beside me. "Bet you thought you got rid of me." Puff. Puff.

I ignore her, pull myself up against the headboard. "You didn't call an ambulance."

"No." Thirteen walks over, tucking her phone away. There's something in the way she won't look straight at me for a moment. She's questioning her own actions. She's not sure she did the right thing. Chase said something to her.

"Did you tell them?" I ask. "Chase and Cameron."

She takes a moment to answer, faintly impressed that even bleeding out in the tub I noticed it wasn't only Chase at her apartment. She won't admit that, of course.

"No," she finally says. "Not my secret to tell."

"I take it your friend is in the hospital now."

"Yeah." She sits at the foot of the bed, facing the opposite wall. She pushes her hair behind her ear, presses her eyelids. "They thought she was bleeding into her brain. Cameron advocated for her, was ready to bring back more clotting factor and drill a burr hole there, but Chase convinced her they needed to get a CT. So with me gone, they took her in." She sighs. "She was in a drug den when she was stabbed. She'll go back to prison."

"And you think you've let her down."

She's quiet for a moment, then turns to me. "More importantly, what were you thinking? You probably lost about two litres of blood."

"My leg hurt." That defence rolls out of me like all the other times I've used it. "Vicodin, oxycodone... none of it was working."

"Not strictly, true," Amber says.

My eyes dart to her, reclining against the headboard beside me. Her smugness makes my jaw clench. I return to Thirteen, gaze drifting just to the right of her. It's easier to not meet her head-on. "I'm losing my mind, hallucinating."

She doesn't say anything.

"I didn't know what else to do."

Still nothing.

"Now who's quiet during an emotional reveal?" Amber shifts, causing the mattress to creak.

I'm not emotional.

I roll the blanket down. I'm in pyjama bottoms. The outline of bandages are visible beneath the fabric. Everything's dry. My boxers were drenched in blood. Which brings a nice thought.

"How exactly did you get me out of the tub and all the way in here?" I give Thirteen a hard stare now. "And don't tell me you undressed me."

"We're doctors," she says, unconcerned.

"She must have gone through quite a lot while you were passed out." A shadow rolls over my face. Amber twirls my cane like a slow pin-wheel. Where did she get it? Or more importantly... where is it for real?

I was mostly joking about the undressing. Though, if I'm honest with myself, just because I've associated with hookers before doesn't mean I'm comfortable having people I work with see me naked. That's actually more awkward than a stranger.

"Better question," Thirteen interrupts my thoughts. "Why me? Why not Wilson?"

She was prepared to let her cellmate die in her apartment because of a promise. What she's done for me was even more crazy.

Undiluted truth rises to the surface again. "Figured you wouldn't keep telling me how stupid I was."

"Really?" She crosses her legs. "Haven't I been doing just that?"

"Wilson would never have cut it out."

Her eyes widen in some degree of disbelief. "I don't know... pretty sure he'd do anything for you."

"Aww, how romantic," I say mockingly.

"I'm serious."

"No." I glance to the doorway, then back at her. "He'd have called an ambulance."

Hints of a smile tug at the corners of her mouth."Is this your version of thank you?"

I keep my eyes on hers, face straight, uncompromising. Only silence passes between us, but the sentiment is clear. Her continued gaze substitutes for 'you're welcome'.

A thud echoes from the hall. Knocking. The front door. Dammit. At this hour there's only one person that could be.

"Oops." Amber stops twirling. "This should be fun."

I give Thirteen a look that tells her not to answer it. She doesn't remark or show any intention of moving, but I get the impression she thinks hiding isn't the best solution.

Knock. Knock.

"House! Open the door!" Wilson's voice reaches into the bedroom. "I know you're in there!"

Knock. Knock. Thud. Thump. "House!"

"He'll give up soon." I pull the pillow out from my neck and give it a few good punches before stuffing it back behind me. "Then you can go."

"You know she's not going to leave you." Amber resumes cane twirling. "Especially not after all you've admitted."

"You should talk to him," Thirteen finally says.

No. I won't. I can't.

There's a smacking of bare feet on the wood floor. The knocking stops. Oh, shit. Rachel. He woke her up. She's let him in. No avoiding it now.

A few plods nearer and they're in the doorway. Rachel clutches Wilson's hand, glowering at me with utter obliviousness to the torture she's just invited in. He's half baffled, half exasperated as he digests the sight of Thirteen sat at the foot of my bed and the IV stand beside me.

"I'm just going to sit back and enjoy this," Amber says.

Like she could do anything else.

"You two have a lot to discuss." Thirteen stands, smoothing the crease from her jeans. "I'll go." She starts out, then pauses, Wilson still scowling silently. "Unless..." She glances at Rachel. "You need anything, sweetie?"

"I'm thirsty." Rachel rubs her eyes drowsily. Her other hand slides from Wilson's and takes Thirteen's instead. They disappear down the hall.

Wilson finally sighs. "I'm afraid to ask."

"Then don't," I snap.

"Cameron called. I'm sure you know about the visitor to Thirteen's apartment," he says. "She thought you must be in trouble because it was the only explanation for why Thirteen would run off, leave her and Chase holding the bag, and refuse to answer any questions." He makes his way in, surveying his surroundings.

I couldn't do anything to stop him if I wanted to. Nothing's a more irritating, prickling sensation than this sort of helplessness.

The bathroom door is open. The mess inside catches his eye."I was assuming you OD'd and butt-dialled Thirteen by mistake," he says, peering for a few moments. "Since you'd die before asking for help, but..."

I cut him off. "I told you I'm not on heroin."

"Oh, of course, because you'd say if you were." He shoots me a judgemental glare, then approaches.

Tap.

I flinch. He notices.

Tap.

It's Amber striking my cane against the wall.

"Congratulations," he says. "Looks like you can finally add Thirteen to the list of fellow doctors you've irrevocably warped."

"Really?" I try to ignore Amber's attempts. "Afraid I don't deserve credit for that." I scratch my arm near the IV line. "She was already screwed up."

He doesn't remark, but his face offers some combination of 'that's beside the point' and 'you're one to talk'. More things I've heard too often.

I'm lulled into complacency by the seconds of quiet, thinking he'll actually drop this and go back home, get a few hours of sleep. How unrealistically optimistic. His mouth starts moving again."You might as well tell me what stupid, insane thing you did because I'm not leaving until you do."

I let out a deep breath. "Doesn't matter now. It's over."

Tap. "You might as well spill it all," Amber says. "Before you dig yourself into a hole so deep you can't climb out."

Wilson's phone rings. He answers and his features tighten. "What? But... when did—?"

"Or it might already be too late."

He's got loads of patients, but his eyes tell me it's about Cuddy. "I'll be right over." He hangs up.

"Emergency?" I try to sound unconcerned.

"Yeah." He grabs my cane from across the room. "Hope you're able to walk."

Wilson keeps the weight off my freshly mangled leg. Embarrassment is the last thing on my mind right now. A pair of nurses shuffle out of the room to meet us. Through the glass, Cuddy heaves with strained breaths, even under an oxygen mask, a layer of sweat glistening from her bluish skin.

"She's stable," the male nurse reports, fixing on my pyjama bottoms. "We had to perform a pericardiocentesis."

I swing my cane up, stumbling. "Which one of you idiots did this?"

Wilson steadies me. I push him off, clench against the pain shredding through.

"Sure." Amber stops in front of the glass. "Blame the nurses." She turns and leans her back against it. "You know whose fault this really is."

"We... we..." The girl stammers for a moment before the guy takes the lead. "Her heart rate, BP, and O2 sat were fine. All back within range before the dose. "

"Elaborate on 'fine'." I clutch my leg. It's a battle to remain vertical, one I'm losing.

"Around 98bpm, 100/80, and 95%." He crosses his arms. "Just like the chart specified. I've handled this treatment before." He looks at Wilson. "We've upped the phenylephrine, started her on furosemide, but BP is still tanking and we can't risk raising her heart rate any more."

"We could give her another fluid bolus," the younger nurse offers.

"She's got capillary leak and is struggling to not drown as it is, which I assume is why you're giving her a diuretic, which probably won't help because by the time it starts working, the IL-2 will be running its course. Either way, it seems a bit counter-intuitive, but by all means dump another gallon jug down."

"House." Wilson grabs my shoulder "This isn't helping. And you're going to rip your stitches." He tugs me towards the door. "Come on, she needs to see you. I think that's the most important thing you can do for her right now."

"He's right." Amber straightens. "Listen to him, or you'll regret it."

Why the hell would she care what I'll regret? Is she trying to help me? Or is this just another angle to amuse herself?

Cuddy struggles on the other side of the glass, reaching towards me. I can't argue. I give the nurses a final glare, then let Wilson help me inside and to the chair beside the bed.

I sag into it with a sigh of relief, try to position my leg some way that's less than agony.

"Still expect an explanation at some point," Wilson says, glancing at where the bandage wrap causes the fabric of my pyjama bottoms to bump up. "But for now I'll order you some more morphine." He heads back out.

Cuddy fights with her oxygen mask.

I grab her hand, pull the mask up just enough to let her speak.

"Are you okay?" Her words croak out."What happened?"

"I should be asking you that." I brush her knuckles with my thumb. "Yeah, I'm fine. You can bitch me out about it later."

"That's..." She huffs. "That's what I'm worried about..." Her eyes penetrate mine, glazed with fear. "I don't think... there's... going to be a later."

"So, you got a dose when it should've been skipped. It's gonna be a rough few hours, but it'll be over soon enough. I'm here. You'll get through this."

"No." She gasps. "I think this is it."

"Stop it." I give her hand a squeeze and lean in. "You're gonna be okay."

"But you don't believe that." Amber traces her fingers along the plastic footboard. "Not really."

"No, no." Cuddy uses every bit of strength to shake her head. A tear streaks down her cheek."Call my mom, Julia... I need to see them."

I clench my muscles as a wave of pain rolls through my thigh. The hand not on hers grips the bed rail and crunches down."I won't go along with this so you can give up."

"House... please." She gapes to catch her breath. I push the mask down. She pries it up a few moments later. "Listen to me, please. I need... to say goodbye."

A lump rises in my throat and my jaw tightens. I won't let that happen. "You're not going to die."

"You can't stop it." Amber grips my shoulder. My stomach turns. Where's the blowing in my ear? The taunting? "She's ready to go."

"No." It comes out before I can restrain it. "I won't let her stop fighting."

Cuddy struggles to raise herself, to latch onto me, too consumed by effort to question. I lift her into my arms, her skin clammy.

She loosens as her breaths rasp out with a rattle. There's a calm in the embrace, a stillness that contradicts the tempo of the heart monitor, the beeps like a galloping horse.

"I love you," she says.

Over her shoulder, Amber's eyes are different. No flare or flicker of delight, only grim resolve. "Somewhere, deep down, you've known it all along." Her voice alternates with Cuddy's.

"Rachel... loves you too."

"It's what this has all been about."

"Take care of her for me..."

"You need to let go."

It's a knife to the gut. I can't. I can't be alone again. "No, you're not doing this. You're not doing this to me." I pull back to meet Cuddy's eyes. They're glassy, unfocused, half-closed. "You can't leave me. I need you."

Beep beep beep. Beep beep beep.

"I need you, dammit!"

Erratic spikes flow on the ECG. She's going into v-fib. I lunge to call the code. My leg drags me to the floor, but my cane handle smacks against the button. I discard the cane to the tile, as the wall, the bed rail, anything my body can lean against acts as a crutch.

I steady myself over her and push my hands down on her chest. Again and again. A breath through her lips. Another pump. And another. I keep going. It's not working.

Footsteps and a rolling cart speed towards us. The code nurses and Wilson. They push in, nudge me off, and take over the chest compressions. A bag-mask-valve goes over her mouth.

"Charging."

The paddles go down.

"Clear."

The ECG shows a spike, then returns to chaotic wavers.

"Again," Wilson says. "Go to 360."

"Charging to 360."

"Clear."

Another small spike, then nothing. Wilson gives a shot of epinephrine. Still nothing. He claws through his hair, all of us watching the monitor.

"Again." I step in.

"Charging." The nurse holds up the paddles. "Clear."

A chill swallows me. Time moves in slow motion. My eardrums roar with skyrocketing blood pressure and thump with every heartbeat. I've seen so many weaker patients come back from worse. It can't end like this. There's still so much we haven't done. I didn't marry her.

No response from the shock. The waveforms turn straight and the flatline rings out, a piercing monotone that mutes everything else in the room. The team freeze, pull back from her body.

I lurch forwards. "Again."

They don't listen. The nurse with the paddles hangs them up.

"No!" I take the paddles, press the button to charge.

Wilson grabs me. I push him off. Another jolt. Nothing. I slam against the cart and scramble for another epinephrine syringe. The nurses stand idly as I stick it in.

Still nothing.

"House." Wilson touches my arm again.

"No, it's not over." I lift the paddles and charge them. I push them down on her chest. The solid droning doesn't break.

Then it stops. One of the nurses has turned off the monitor.

"Time of death 3:22AM," she says.

"No!" I turn to fetch another syringe. This time my leg gives out. The cart starts to roll away under my weight. The nurse stops it. Wilson steadies me, wrests the paddles from me, replaces them with my cane. He grabbed it at some point.

Our eyes lock. I can't stand the look he's giving. It's disgusting. I pull away. The cart rolls out. And she's just lying there, motionless.

How is this possible? How does this make any sense?