Chapter 9: The Pump Don't Work
At first, House felt all the physical agony, the white hot stabs of pain in his brain, chest and limbs as his body fought valiantly against the poison entering his bloodstream. But eventually he knew his physical self would have to succumb. It would stop struggling, eventually everything would quiet, his muscles and nerves would stop pulsing, his mind would stop racing and his heart and breathing would slow and still. All would be calm and silent.
And he would finally be free of pain.
But as he felt half of his body begin to fade, his senses seemed to accelerate and become even more distinct and aware. Whether real or imagined, the byproduct of the synapses firing in his dying brain or something else again, House could see a thousand brilliant colors dance like the northern lights across the scope of his closed eyelids. His nostrils filled with the scents of hewn oak, damp forest moss, decaying meat, electricity and scorched flesh.
And from somewhere far away, House could hear music. It started slow at first, eventually increasing in both tempo and volume. He heard the deep reverberation of a bass fiddle as its strings were methodically plucked, the shrill pitch of a slide guitar and the unmistakable twang of an old, weathered Martin.
It was a blues song, Delta blues to be more precise and as all blues music had done throughout his life, it spoke to him, for him as it echoed inside his still-beating heart.
The arrangement was different from the recording he possessed in his record collection. But the vocalist was still the familiar Howlin' Wolf who sang:
"How many more years, have I got to let you dog me around
How many more years, have I got to let you dog me around
I'd soon rather be dead, sleeping six feet in the ground
I'm gonna fall on my knees, I'm gonna raise up my right hand
I'm gonna fall on my knees, I'm gonna raise up my right hand
Say I'd feel much better darling, if you'd just only understand"1
Then a different song began to play at the same time as the first.
"Just lay my body
Lay my body in six cold feet of ground
Just lay my body
In six cold feet of ground
Well I will be the loser
When that deal goes down"2
The vocals of the second song blended with, then overrode the first. The two songs clashed and circled round each other creating a weird discordant harmony. The notes and lyrics seemed to grow in intensity as if they were no longer only sound but solid and tactile. House felt the music inside and out, wrapping round and through him like the tendrils of a vine. They began to tickle and press against his flesh at the same time as they propelled him forward into nothingness.
Just as he heard the songs fade and felt his physical self relax and give in to the void, something or someone else began to hold sway over him. It was closer, much closer than when the music first started.
House heard voices, some raised in anger others in distress and frustration. His body felt hot and cold as needles were plunged into his skin and tubes shoved inside of him.
But these pains too became separate and isolated as House began floating, disengaging himself from this life and the anguish that was his known, daily experience.
Strangely enough, his body which at first fought against his decision to die had begun to violently resist the efforts of those who were outside the cloak of darkness even now trying to save him. His corporeal self had finally aligned with his misguided resolve until the entirety of his being, all that which was Gregory House, fought to end the misery of his life and simply die.
Amidst his uncertainty and pain, he heard a familiar voice, barking orders, panic-stricken, fighting hard for the life of the man who had, on the face of it, so carelessly thrown it away.
House couldn't help but feel sorry for Wilson. He could only hope that perhaps Wilson would one day come to understand that he was much better off without him. It would be hard for his best friend to grasp at first but House felt sure that he would eventually come to the realization that this act, though apparently selfish, was House at his most selfless. He was giving Wilson his life back, freeing him from the pain and worry which friendship with one Gregory House must always beget.
All of the people House loved, yes loved, would be better off without him. Cuddy's shrill voice echoed inside his head, "People who get close to you get hurt." He was tired of hurting those he loved, hell, he was tired of hurting himself. He had to save them, save them all from the sorrow of knowing him, caring for him, watching him time and again go down.
True, they might feel a twinge of regret at his death but that would pass. The people House loved would, in the end, be able to move on much further without being tied to him, like an albatross around their necks.
Wilson might eventually remarry and hopefully, without House's negative influence, be able to ride out the relationship to a more satisfying end. Foreman would finally be liberated from the feeling of having to look after his old boss. Chase would come out from beneath House's overly large shadow and forge for himself a shining career in his own right. The rest of the team would be just fine.
And Cuddy . . . Cuddy would never again have to worry about House. She would finally be totally free.
Oh how he would miss them all. But that period of mourning, like theirs for him, would be brief, his own grieving would occur in those last few minutes of life before the darkness took him and his thoughts, like his pain, would at last be no more.
However, while Wilson might one day be at peace with House's decision, his current resolve was entirely opposite. He just would not let his best friend go. House could hear him still fighting, still struggling on what he thought was House's behalf.
"Let me go Wilson," House's thoughts drifted dispassionately across his mind. "It's okay now. Just let me go."
The tube that had been shoved down House's throat scraped and hurt as in the next moment he felt it emptying the contents of his stomach. He vaguely hoped enough of the pills had reached his bloodstream before they pumped him out.
Although his arms and left leg felt like lead, House remained conscious enough to realize they were strapping him to the bed. Had he been moving his limbs against their efforts? He wasn't sure.
More voices, more Wilson, more monitors, more tubes and needles all raining down on him, pelting him like large, icy chunks of hail. And House lay there the whole time, completely impassive to the efforts of everyone else in the room. It seemed he was poised on the edge of a knife and whether he fell toward life or death no longer mattered to him.
But it certainly mattered to Wilson. And to those who fought alongside him to save House's life.
Their efforts were single-minded, unified and strong. Just as House gave up caring one way or the other and began to slip into the shadows, his attendants surged forward, grabbing hold of him and crossing the finish line a hair's breadth ahead of the fatal intentions of Gregory House.
He was alive.
Time had no meaning in the twilight lands of House's existence. It might have been hours, it might have been days, but slowly, grudgingly, House experienced the physical pain that ushered him forth and reminded him that he hadn't left this life. At least, not yet.
"You idiot," he heard Wilson's familiar voice rumble next to him.
House tried to turn his head to look at his friend but couldn't. He felt a tightness across his forehead signaling that his head had been secured to the mattress.
He struggled to move his arms but they too were secure and allowed no freedom of movement away from the bars of his hospital bed. House then endeavored to speak but a tube in his throat turned his language to nothing more than inarticulate grunts and groans. Deprived of any other recourse, House began to voice his frustration through volume alone since words had been denied him.
"Shut up," Wilson said. "Just shut the hell up. You've got a breathing tube down your throat genius and you're strapped to this bed to keep you from pulling another stupid stunt like that."
House opened his eyes but could only look at the ceiling because of the way his head was positioned on the bed. He groaned.
"Yeah, that's right. You're not going anywhere just yet. Not if I have anything to say about it."
House rolled his eyes to the side where he could just make out Wilson, sitting next to his bed, holding his head in his hands. He grunted, trying to convey to Wilson to take the tube out of his mouth so he could talk. He needed to tell Wilson that it wasn't his fault, he needed to tell him why he'd done it, how he was so tired and still in such unbearable pain.
Wilson raised his head in response to House's continued moaning. House could see that Wilson had been crying.
"Shut up House. You're not getting that tube out. Not for awhile."
House moaned loudly.
"Yeah, well this one time I don't give a crap what you want. I'm going to do what I want for a change. And what I want . . . what I need is to get away from you for awhile."
House just looked at Wilson, an unbelievable look of hurt in his eyes.
"I'm going away for awhile. I don't know for how long. Call it a sabbatical. I don't know. Maybe you'll do better without me around, without me to fall back on. But I need to do this for me. I need to get away from Cuddy and her poison and you and your particular brand of crazy and the fact that you would rather die than give yourself a chance at life without your goddamned leg."
House tried to tell Wilson that he was wrong, that his leg had nothing to do with him wanting to die. Hot tears of frustration and pain filled his eyes as he tried to move, tried to speak but was held fast by his restraints.
Wilson stood up just as a nurse came in. Wilson nodded to her, "Go ahead and give it to him. He needs to settle down."
House let loose a scream muffled by the tube when he felt the needle slide into his flesh. "Wilson, Wilson, listen to me. Just listen to me. Wilson," rolled over and over in his mind as he felt the drug begin to take effect.
"Goodbye House. I'll see you when I get back. I hope . . . I hope I see you when I get back. I hope you give yourself a chance. I still think you deserve it . . . even after everything that's happened. I still think you owe it to yourself.
Wilson's retreating form was blurred in House's sight, both from the drug and from the tears that had begun leaking from the corners of his eyes.
"Wilson, don't leave me. Please, don't leave me. Don't leave me all alone in the dark. Please."
And then House knew no more.
1: Lyrics from "How Many More Years" by Howlin' Wolf
2: Lyrics from "Six Cold Feet" performed by Hugh Laurie