A/N: Thanks to "Finding Judas", which has just pleasantly aired again tonight, I am in my right mood to write. Thanks for all of the reviews! I hope you enjoy this one! Oh, and please excuse my use of any wrong medical terms. I'm trying my best. Thanks!!

DISCLAIMER: David Shore's.

Early morning of December 25th Two hours after Gregory House was admitted.

James Wilson would never forget that moment when he stepped into Princeton Plainsboro…

He rushed into the hospital, after an alarming call from Cuddy .Something wasn't right. House wasn't in his office. Cuddy wasn't in hers. Fucking nurses weren't even at the counter. A wave of panic struck over him. He was about to pull out his cell phone, but a familiar voice called out.

"Dr. Wilson!"

Wilson turned around to see a frightened-looking Cuddy.

"Where is he?" Wilson immediately asked, knowing something was…terribly wrong. He looked at her. There were tears desperately trying to be held back, and a look of administration attempting to be obtained. They foolishly failed. This set another wave of panic over him.

"I don't know how it happened, I don't even know if—"she started, trembling with each stumbled-upon word.

"Cuddy!" he interrupted. "Where is he?" he repeated, knowing that in a few moments, he was no doubt going to regret wanting to know. Without another word, she turned her heel and led him to the ICU.

Wilson followed. He never knew. He never knew that once he stepped into that room, once his eyes gazed upon every little detail inside, he would never be the same. Ever again.

The very first thing he noticed was the amount of damp red cloths all over the place. Then the tubes. Life support. Then the patient, who looked way too familiar.

Please, no…..God, let me be wrong.

He approached the patient, and then it all happened too fast. He heard a sharp intake of breath coming from his own mouth. His eyes searched the bloodied face, barley recognizable. This wasn't Gregory House. Wilson had left House on the floor. House was still on the floor.

"No!" Wilson heard himself say, refusing to make sense out of it all. He wheeled around and stared into Cuddy's eyes.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?! What kind of sick joke is this?!" he screamed at her.

"Wilson, I—"

Wilson had his hand covering his mouth, looking back at the patient. He stifled down a sob, and tried to stay strong. He then began checking his monitors.

"Why isn't anybody doing anything?" he started, frantically looking for something. An IV, a chart, anything. God forbid if any of this is actually happening…

"They did all they could—"

"They?"

"The doctors, they—" she started, but Wilson wasn't listening. He suddenly grabbed House's disfigured face.

"House, wake up!" he shouted.

Cuddy began to cry…

"Wilson, stop!" she said, walking closer to him.

"Wake up! Its okay, I'm here!" he began to shake his shoulders. He needed House to know. He needed him to know that he was the best damn thing that has ever happened to him. That for the past few years he was the sole reason why he came to work.

"Wilson, he's dead!"

"Don't listen to her, just open your eyes, buddy!"

Cuddy began to pull him away, but he was too fast for her. What the hell was her problem? Why didn't she want him apologizing to House? He frantically seized her shoulders and pushed her away. She backed into the wall with a loud thump. She didn't get up. She remained on the floor, witnessing something that should never be witnessed.

It was in this moment where Wilson stopped being Wilson. He turned his attention back to House, attempting to revive him. He hurriedly yanked the tubes out of his mouth, and turned off the mechanical ventilation system. He turned the defibrillator on, grabbing the paddles. He charged them, and shocked the dead body. A horrified whimper escaped Cuddy's mouth. She quickly turned away, and closed her eyes shut. Why was this happening? He charged again. And again. And again. And again, until he couldn't hold the paddles any longer. He dropped the paddles, and seized the dead body.

"WAKE UP!!" he screamed at House. Whimpering sobs immediately followed. His knees began to buckle, and he fell to the ground, clutching the blood-stained sheets….finally realizing he wasn't coming back.

"No", he barely whispered. His breathing quickly became short and labored."No…no,no,no,no." It was the only word he knew. The only word that must somehow be true. He repeated it, gasping for air each time, fighting for his own breath. He continued this until he screamed it. Screamed it so that the world can hear. Piercing shrieks. He quickly lost his voice, and began screaming in whispers. He hoisted himself up, gasping for air. He rested his head on House's chest, and wrapped his hands around his waist.

"So sorry," he whispered to the lifeless House. He held onto his body, erratically sobbing."So sorry." Sorry for the times where I wouldn't share my lunch with you, sorry for recording over General Hospital, sorry for ratting you out to Tritter….sorry that I left you….sorry that I'm not the dead one. He held onto the bloodied clothing with a pincer-like grip, not daring to ever let go. He began to realize how tired he was. What must've been moments later, he felt soft hands pull him away from the body.

"No," he protested, but nobody heard this, because he didn't have the energy to say it, or even to open his eyes to look at the horrible person who was taking him away from House. He felt a few more hands lead him out of the ICU. The nurses placed him on a vacant hospital bed. He was already asleep as they wiped the tears from his cheeks, and the perspiration from his forehead. He didn't dream that night.

The following morning, he woke up with the biggest headache.

Gregory House was in the morgue.

A/N:Was that good enough to cause post-traumatic stress? I feel like crying. Please review, it'll make me feel better!