It wasn't raining. The sky was clear, and anyone who took the time to look up would have seen fading stars against a rapidly lightening sky.
It was still early. The streets were deserted, the shops closed. Only the 24-hour convenience store had its lights on. Alarm clocks hadn't begun to go off yet. The city was quiet, its residents fast asleep.
Inside the Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, Dr. James Wilson was just beginning to wake up. The paramedics had checked him over, stuck a butterfly bandage on the worst of his wounds, and declared him in good enough health to be discharged.
He had been given a mild sedative, so he wouldn't go running off and dislodge the bandage, but it had hardly been needed. He would have fallen asleep immediately anyway. He had been exhausted.
The first thing he noticed was that his back hurt. The bed was hard, and he could feel a spring digging into his back. There was a crick in his neck.
His nose was immediately assaulted by the familiar odor of disinfectant. After a moment, he also noticed the scent of flowers and a stale, musky odor that he recognized but could not identify.
He was clearly in the hospital, which was not unusual. He often spent the night, especially when he was going through a divorce, or he'd been kept at work until late at night and he was too tired to drive home.
He slowly cracked his eyes open. The room was dark, but he could see a sliver of harsh light had crept under the door.
It was only when he propped himself up on his elbows and surveyed the room that he realized he was in a patient room. Further investigation revealed a hospital gown, an ID bracelet, and a small butterfly bandage on his thigh, along with several small cuts.
Wilson frowned, his brow creasing with concentration. What exactly had happened last night?
He pushed himself out of bed and looked around the room. Upon discreetly peeking around the curtain in the middle of the room, he determined the other patient in the room was a young man with a broken leg.
A digital clock told him in glaring red numbers that it was exactly 4:12 in the morning. A part of him remembered that it was Christmas Day, a day that held some significance for him despite his Jewish faith.
Wilson frowned. What was he doing in a hospital bed at four AM on Christmas Day?
He located his cloths, hastily folded and tossed onto the single chair. He flipped a light on and inspected then, his mouth opening with shock as he saw they were covered in blood.
It couldn't all be his. He would be in worse shape if he had lost that much blood, although, judging by the bandage on his leg and the corresponding cut in his pants, at least some of it was his.
He massaged his temples, and carefully reconstructed the events of the previous night.
The details were hazy at first. He had finished up some paperwork, packed up his things, gotten in his car. What had happened then? Had there been a car accident?
He didn't think so. He changed into the bloody clothes. He'd find a coat to throw over them as soon as he could, but blood wasn't all that unusual in a hospital. It was odd that they'd left them there- hospital policy was to dispose of contaminated clothes, but he guessed whatever nurse had been attending to him had been too busy to care.
Whatever the reason, he was glad to be out of the flimsy hospital gown, and he pondered the mysterious bloodstains. Had he gone straight home?
No. He'd gone to House's, hadn't he? He'd stopped by (just to make sure House was all right).
It was Christmas, after all, and House was all alone with his pills.
What had happened next?
It hit him like a punch to the gut. Finding House in a pool of his own blood, rushing to him, praying he'd arrived in time.
He must have called 911, but he didn't remember. The last thing he remembered was the blood. There had been so much blood.
House.
Where was House?
He flung open the door of his room, not caring that he probably looked like a serial killer in his bloodstained clothes.
He passed a few nurses in the hall, but they were too wrapped up in their own crises to pay much attention to him.
He ducked in a closet and grabbed a spare lab coat, then stopped at the nurses' station, hoping he looked presentable.
Had he gotten there in time? He refused to even consider the possibility that he hadn't, though it was far easier to believe that this was his fault.
The staff of the nurses' station was a large, frizzy-haired woman who wore strong, cheap perfume. She'd clearly given up on taming her dark, curly hair a long time ago, and now kept it under control with a thick white headband. A roll of fat was sandwiched between a skimpy shirt that was several sizes too small and cheap jeans. She was pushing sixty, and the very least, and tried to hide it with far too much foundation. That, combined with her cheap lipstick and hastily applied eyeliner, made her a truly nauseating sight.
Wilson gave her his most charming smile. "Excuse me, ma'am, but could you tell me if Gregory is a patient here?" He held his breath and crossed all of his fingers. Please say yes. Please say yes.
He didn't know what he would do if House was gone. He didn't have anyone else.
By some miracle she seemed not to recognize the name. She didn't flinch, or crack a joke about the notorious doctor.
Instead, she turned to her computer, and typed away at it for a couple moments. "He certainly is. Checked in last night."
When she wasn't more forthcoming, Wilson added, still in the most polite tone of voice he could manage, "Which room is he in, please?"
"Oh," the woman, whose nametag identified her as Lizzy. Wilson mentally dubbed her Frizzy Lizzy. "He's in ICU," she said, and Wilson swallowed hard. She gave him the room number, and he thanked her and got out of there.
Three elevators, two flights of stairs, and countless corridors later, Wilson made it to House's room.
He tried to get in, but a small nurse told him in no uncertain terms that no visitors were allowed. After several minutes of futile argument, he gave in.
"Is he going to be all right?" The question was infinitely easier to ask than the one he heard every day, is he going to die, but the fear, the desperation, they were the same.
The nurse softened slightly. "He's in critical condition, but he's stable."
That was more than Wilson had hoped for, and slowly made his way to the waiting area, where he paid no attention to everyone else around him, all bearing identical expressions of worry and pain.
This is my fault. He wasn't sure exactly of the logic that brought him to this conclusion, but he knew it was true. His fault. His fault for going to Tritter, for betraying his friend, for not helping House.
He had only caught a glimpse of House through the half-open door, but he knew. House was in bad shape. It was a miracle he had even survived.
What would I do without him? The thought was chilling, and strangely it wasn't one he'd ever considered.
House was a constant.
He was always there, abrasive, crude, brilliant. He lent his couch whenever Wilson was temporarily homeless; he was always ready to offer a beer, if not a shoulder to cry on. He could always count on House to do something foolish, unethical, or just plain illegal, and yet always managed to save lives.
He tried to imagine living without House, getting up without wondering how he was, getting dressed without hearing House's voice in his head insulting his choice of clothes.
He tried to imagine going to work and not seeing House in the hallways, not eating lunch with him, and felt sick.
Everyone leaves. Sooner or later, everyone you love will leave. Wilson knew this better than anyone. But House- House was supposed to be different.
Wilson shut his eyes tightly and jammed his hands over his mouth to keep from crying, or yelling.
People were watching. He had to keep it together. Slowly he drew in a deep breath, let it out, breathed in again. He could fall apart later, when no one was watching.
Right now, he would look calm, in control. Wasn't he supposed to be the pillar of strength? His world was falling apart, he realized, and he was worried about appearances. His hands curled into fists and he shivered, gasping for breath. He was drowning.
He was drowning, and couldn't summon the will to fight for air. Was this how House had felt? Like everyone had abandoned him? It was true, wasn't it?
He had betrayed House, so House had betrayed him. It had an almost poetic quality to it, but Wilson couldn't find any poetics in the pain he felt. He couldn't go on without House. It was that simple.
That led to the inevitable question of why? Was it because he'd grown so used to having House there, almost like a crutch (a cane the thought sprang to his mind and he almost cried) and now he'd forgotten how to live without him? But now, now he couldn't muster the strength to move form his chair, and he felt sick and dizzy and hopeless at the thought of losing his best friend (his only friend he thought the only one who counted) and he closed his eyes and wished he could sleep.
He had caused this.
"Greg," he whispered, softly, brokenly, and a nearby woman who looked about eighty shot him an odd look, then took in his appearance and quickly looked away.
Who was he kidding? How could he convince the world he was okay, when he couldn't even convince himself?