A Sky Without Stars by asesina
A/n: first House, M.D. fic. I've only seen bits and pieces of House, so my apologies if the characterization is spotty or uneven. This was inspired by House's poignant statement, "If you die, I'm alone" in the episode Wilson.
Summary: Drabble. Gen fic. House reflects after Wilson dies. AU.
Warnings: Character death
Disclaimer: David Shore owns House.
[Reposted version to edit out typos and fix some wordings.]
It is 3 pm on a Tuesday when Wilson dies.
He briefly experiences headaches and blurry vision on the day of his death, but Wilson does not complain to anyone.
House would have noticed, but it is a particularly busy time of year. He has to divide his time between the busty teenage model with back problems and the hypochondriac mother whose 6 children all have swine flu.
Wilson doesn't make a sound as he follows his usual route to the oncology office. He puts his clipboard on the desk and bends down to pick up a gossamer-thin piece of paper that escapes his usually careful grasp.
The paper never makes it back to the clipboard.
James Wilson is dead at the age of 40 of an apparent cerebral aneurysm, grade 6 on the Hess and Hunt scale of subarachnoid hemorrhaging.
Not long after, a nurse frantically contacts Cuddy, and she sends House an urgent page moments later.
House arrives just as they are beginning to revive Wilson, but he knows that their attempts are fruitless. His ears whir with white noise as the world around him spins in a dizzying kaleidoscope of unreality.
It's 2:59 pm, and the red-haired doctor across from him ruefully glances at her watch as they call the time of death.
3:00 pm on the dot.
House stumbles away from the ER, face wan and contorted with guarded hysteria.
He collapses onto a chair in the lobby and tries his best to ignore the searing pain in his right leg.
House desperately wishes that he will wake up any moment and see Wilson's raised eyebrows and lopsided smirk, but his leg won't let him drift away from the real world.
He lowers a trembling hand into his pocket and retrieves two Vicodin pills. He chokes them down and blinks hard as he leans forward and stares at the tiled floor.
The tiles are starting to swim together, and House doesn't even notice when Cuddy puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder. She peers over at him, but his gaze is far too fixated on the linoleum to be broken.
"House," she says softly.
"Who would've seen this coming, Cuddy?" he asks in a broken voice.
"No one, House. Not even you," she assures him, offering a doleful half-smile as she stands up and leaves House alone.
"I should have," House whispers, gazing bitterly at the bustle of activity and hysteria in front of him.
Remarkably, House does not shed a single tear during the day.
He requests Wilson's medical records and pores over them, trying to see if this all could've been prevented.
When he discovers that this was truly a horrid coincidence, House finally accepts that he was wrong and gives himself over to the grief.
As he closes the file marked J. Wilson, his shoulders are wracked with long-overdue sobs because there's nothing he can do.
There's nothing he could've done.
There is only silence.
End.