Chapter 2
House sat on the edge of the bed after waking from a Vicodin-induced sleep. He felt nauseous and didn't know if it was the drugs or his life. He reached to the bedside table and gulped some water, staring at the pill bottle perched there. He didn't need it anymore. It would all be over soon. He took a deep breath and walked to the sliding doors and stared out at the night for a few minutes, reviewing the many reasons that supported this decision. It fit, he again concluded, and slid the door open. The cold air blowing across his face was further sobering, only strengthening his resolution. He couldn't live sober. It wasn't an option.
Jumping seemed right. A plummet instead of a slow descent. Once the step was taken, there was no backing out – no rehab, no long Wilson speeches, no more options. House climbed onto the railing and looked down the six stories to the ground below. He was in the back of the hotel, so there was no one to really see him as he had his final thoughts.
Then he heard the banging on the door behind him. It was Wilson's bang. He knew it by heart. House rolled his eyes, knowing he shouldn't be shocked by the man's uncanny ability to fly to his injured side. If there were guardian angels, Wilson was his. But House didn't believe in that shit. He ignored Wilson's pleas to open the door, hoping he'd go away to get the manager or something so his last moments could be more silent.
Then he heard the door open and heard her voice behind him. "House," was all she said and his face contorted in agony.
"Dammit, Wilson," he sighed. "She doesn't need this."
"House," she said again, calmly, and he felt her hand on his.