A/N: Thanks for all the amazing reviews! House fandom kicks GA fandom's ass, officially. Oh, by the way, this takes place before Amber dies and Cuddy gets a baby and everything.

Warning: If you don't like blood and stuff like that, skip this first section.

Which Way Is Up?

Upside Down

House woke up to a great deal of shouting and movement that he did not appreciate.

A hand settled gently over his legs, tapping him. "House!" The tapping grew more insistent. "Oh God. Not you too," the voice sobbed.

House groaned in annoyance. Why was he so stiff? He pried his eyelids open.

Wilson hunched over him, supported by one hand flat on the ground. The other held a cell phone tightly to his ear. "Yes. There's two of them," Wilson was saying, "Doctor Cuddy and Doctor House." He wrinkled his forehead into a frown. "House? Can you move?"

House groaned again and pressed a palm into his eyes. For the first time, he realized how much his head hurt. It almost made him forget about his leg. "Geez, Wilson. What are you doing?" Then he felt the wooden floor beneath his legs and remembered. "Cuddy." He tried to sit up.

"No, House." Wilson said firmly as he forced him to lay back down. He spoke into the phone again. "He doesn't seem to be hurt as badly. No visible lacerations." Wilson's hands shook as he checked House over. "He can move all appendages freely." He paused and added, "Except for his leg...but that's unrelated"

"What? Where's Cuddy?" Everything ached, but his need to assess the situation overcame his pain.

Wilson climbed off of him and shut the phone. He ran out of the room, shouting, "I'll be back. Stay in there."

Wilson was trying to protect him and failing miserably at it. Something was obviously wrong and House refused to lie there useless. Slowly, he inched his legs up, but it didn't matter. His thigh still burned in pain.

He yelled in frustration.

Wilson hurried back. "What? Is something broken?"

No, House didn't think so. But he hurt everywhere nevertheless. He looked up to snap at Wilson, but was distracted by Wilson's crimson-stained hands. All of his pain was pushed to the back of his mind and adrenaline shot through him, causing him to jolt forward to a half-sitting position. "Whose blood is that?"

Wilson looked down at his hands and sanguine-spotted jacket. He gestured towards House. "Don't move. The ambulance will be here in a few minutes." He hesistated and waved House off, "Trust me."

Wilson's words only made House more curious. He rolled and scrambled to his feet, the pain in his leg knocking him back down. He crawled, dragging his leg to rather than attempting to use it. He made it to the doorway before collapsing.

Wilson crouched on the floor, hovering above Cuddy. House saw her long legs curled around awkwardly towards him, and began to crawl again to get a better look.

Her eyes were shut, her skin stark white.

He smelt the blood a moment before his hand splashed into a warm liquid. He looked down. Blood pooled over his fingers.

He couldn't move, couldn't do anything except stare. He didn't want to look at her and see how bad it was. She had to be alive. She had to. He only allowed himself a few seconds of denial before deciding that he was going to fix her.

He started by kneeling by her face.

Her hair, her clothes, they were all soaked.

"Cuddy?" He brushed her face.

"Do you know who did this?"

Wilson's voice forced him to shift his gaze to her midsection. Her shirt was opened to reveal three cuts, all of which House knew were pretty deep. It was just a lot of blood, he told himself. "We need to stop the bleeding."

"What bleeding? She doesn't have any blood left." Wilson stood and paced the room. "I can't believe this is happening. It feels like a nightmare." House noticed that Wilson was breaking down now that House had taken charge.

"That's a new color on you." House wasn't used to a pessimistic Wilson. Wilson without hope, without faith- he was a stranger. "Does she have a pulse?" He touched her wrist, one of the only parts of her not covered in blood. He saw her chest rise and fall almost imperceptibly. "She's breathing. I can't get a pulse, though."

Wilson placed his fingers on her neck. "I got one. It's faint...." He sniffled, and growled at no one in particular. "How did this happen?"

"Her boyfriend- ex. He was crazy. Literally insane, as you can tell." House nudged her face again.

"Why are you here?"

"Doesn't matter." He urged her to wake up.

"House! What's that?" Wilson pointed to the back of his neck.

House ignored him and thought he heard sirens in the distance.

"You've got a big knot on your neck. Did you get hit?" Wilson looked more closely.

"Yeah, so? Cuddy is bleeding out-"

She gasped, causing them both to jump. Her eyes widened and she locked her jaw open.

"Cuddy!" House kneeled over her, not caring about the blood anymore. "Can you feel anything? Can you talk?"

She gasped again and coughed. She tried to lick her lips, but her pale, dry tongue offered no moisture.

"Guess not." A pang of sadness hit House's stomach as he realized he'd been kissing those lips just a few hours ago. They were certainly wet enough then. He looked back to her abdomen. Every time she breathed, blood rose in her cuts, but none spilled out. "In case you don't remember, psycho Brandon put three holes in your stomach." Actually, only one was probably hitting her stomach. The others appeared close to her liver and intestines. "The ambulance is coming soon. So it would be great if you could hold off on dying for a few minutes."

He smiled at her and she closed her mouth. She moved stiffly, her hand unable to stay still. She picked it up, saw the blood, and let it hover over her abdomen. Her face remained frozen in shock and terror as she felt the cuts. She shivered and closed her eyes.

"Cuddy!" House looked at Wilson, who had tears welling in his eyes. "Hold her hand!" he shouted.

Wilson complied, unable to stop sobbing.

The ambulances pulled up and House asked her to wake up again. "Damn it. Stay awake." He touched her face one more and pressed his lips against her top, cracked lip. Still beautiful, he thought.

Her eyes snapped open and the paramedics raced in. "Please, step away gently," one said.

It took all of House's strength to let go of her. He fell on his back when he realized how tired and sore he was.

"Three stab wounds to the left hypochondriac, epigastric, and hypogastric sections of the abdomen." They hoisted her onto the stretcher.

"Cuddy," House said again, this time to the ceiling.

Another paramedic hovered over him. "Can you tell us what's wrong, sir?"

"My boss- my friend-" His fuck-buddy, the love of his life- "she's dying. That's wrong."

"Yes. We're going to help her. What's wrong with you?" The paramedic was patient with him. He was probably new.

"Well," He blinked and sat up. "If I remember correctly, I was hit- with my own cane- in the neck and the head." He felt the bump on his head. "Then, I was pummeled in the stomach." Which, as he just thought about now, also hurt very badly. It had seemed minor compared to the other pains in his head and leg, but if he thought about it, he could definitely feel a dull ache.

The paramedic ripped his shirt open.

There was no time for a sexual comment. The bruise was long and spread across his left ribcage. "That can't be good."

"We need to take you to the hospital and check for internal injuries."

"I know," House grumbled. "Wilson- ride with Lisa." He thought she should have someone comforting beside her as she fought for her life. She was strong enough, he knew she was.

Wilson nodded, and hurried off to catch her ambulance.

House closed his eyes as they lifted him into the stretcher. Normally, he would protest the help, but today he knew his legs physically wouldn't be able to carry him anywhere.

At the hospital, Cameron tearfully examined House's injuries, trying not to say anything. Kutner and Taub interrogated him, despite Thirteen's hushings.

He refused to participate in any verbal description of his night until he heard news of Cuddy.

While they waited for his blood tests to come back, House analyzed his condition. It had been an hour, and Wilson hadn't even stopped by, not very promising. If anything was fine whatsoever, Wilson would be here, sharing it with him.

He guessed that she was in the OR, with about 90% confidence. The other 10% went to the morgue, which he wasn't thinking about. He knew Cuddy would be okay. She was the dean of medicine. If the surgeons couldn't save her, who could they save?

It would be a bit ironic, dying in her own hospital. Then again, deans of medicine die all the time. Just not his dean.

As soon as Cameron proclaimed him well enough to go home (like he knew already), he demanded a wheelchair. He'd left his cane at Cuddy's house. Actually, there was no way he was going to use that ever again. He'd have to get a new one.

Until then, it was wheelie's and extra-close parking spaces for him. Cuddy would have to approve.

They all told him that he should rest. They'd give him his own room and extra nurses to annoy. He said he wanted to be in Cuddy's room, and Cameron and Thirteen shared a look.

Taub told him that there wasn't anything he could do.

House wouldn't listen, like always. He still had a mind of his own. Swallowing the rest of his Vicodin, he asked if Cameron would refill the bottle.

She couldn't deny him anything.

He wheeled around in the hallway close to the OR until he got a confirmation of her whereabouts from Foreman. Then he rolled off, not entirely sure of how he'd get in.

House made it to the scrub room OR3 without damaging himself. (He couldn't say that much for the other doctors who were in his way.) Wilson sat on the floor, his eyes red, and arms tense across his chest.

House stopped just short of his feet. "Where?"

Wilson pointed to the scrub room, "They won't let you-"

House rushed to the doorway and Wilson jumped up to stop him.

It was easy to get in to the scrub room, but reaching the sink was another story. House pulled on the cool metal sink and forced his legs to keep him upright. He bit his lip to counteract the pain in his stomach.

He couldn't see her. There were too many hands, too many bodies moving over her. He supposed that was a good thing. But not good enough if she was still in there.

Chase's eyes darted back and forth, noticing House after a few minutes. He simply returned his intense stare back to Cuddy's body, focused on the work at hand.

House felt Wilson grab his upper arm. "You can't go in," he said, "All we can do is stand here. I'm going to pray."

"So, basically, do nothing." That wasn't going to help Cuddy. House couldn't let himself watch Cuddy die while he didn't do anything. He scrubbed his hands.

"No." Wilson weakly tried to hold him back, but House broke through, moving into the OR.

"Get out of here." Chase's rough accent failed to stop him.

House stood near her head and played with her hair as he observed their progress. They'd managed to repair her stomach, but her liver was severely pierced and her small intestine was all cut up, as if the knife had been twisted and dragged through.

Definitely not an accident.

"House, get out of the way." Chase's strong voice rang clear over the clanging instruments and the gush of internal organs.

"She's losing too much blood," One of the nurses said what no one wanted to here.

"Get more!" Chase yelled.

House would be proud, but he was too concerned with Cuddy's failing stats. He checked behind him. Wilson was watching from the scrub room, his hand running through his hair. Another tear slipped out of his eyes.

House would not cry. "She isn't dying!"

Cuddy's flat-line begged to differ.

"What?" House's hands clutched her hair tightly. "Charge her!"

Chase sighed, his face screwing up into a frown. He, too, seemed to be choking on tears.

They shocked her three times before Chase gave up and House took over. It was painful and cliche, but he couldn't stop himself. He'd have to admit failure and face life without Cuddy, which seemed like an impossible task.

After the fifteenth zap!, he stopped, not needing to be told when it was too much.

Chase called time of death.

All of the nurses remained still, not willing to move until House spoke.

He put down the paddles. "Close her up." A lump rose in his throat, which he immediately tried to swallow and forget about.

He returned to his spot by her head.

Chase pulled off his scrub cap and faced the back wall. Wilson joined him a few minutes later.

House couldn't think of any words at all. Images of Cuddy kept flashing through his head. Cuddy smiling, talking about babies, laughing at his jokes. Cuddy crying. Cuddy yelling. Cuddy's lips. Her eyes. Her breasts.

Gone. Never to be seen again.

He forced every memory to run through his head. Holidays, conferences, classes. It seemed like she could still be alive if he could just keep thinking about her.

But she wasn't, he had to remember.

It was probably his fault. His useless leg that couldn't protect her. It stung as he thought about it and his fingers instinctively reached down to massage it.

He rubbed his muscle for only a second, because he realized that he'd rather be in pain and touching her than not being able to feel her at all.

If he'd just asked her out. He was such a coward, he knew. That really was his fault. They might have been happy, and she never would have met Brandon or felt desperate enough to go out with him.

It was idiotic of him to be blaming himself, so he started plotting revenge. He wouldn't be able to take Brandon merely by physical strength, but intellect was on his side. He was thinking poison.

Crazy killer wouldn't live, he though as his thumbs moved over Cuddy's temple.

Wilson came over and rested a hand on House's shoulder. He leaned against him temporarily and House felt tears wet his shirt.

He wanted to shrug him off, but figured it wasn't the best time. So he ignored Wilson, keeping his eyes locked on Cuddy. She'd never bicker with him again, much less scream out her sexual frustration. What was he going to do? He couldn't kiss her anymore. He wished it was the day before so he could kiss her without hesitation and she'd kiss him back. And it would be perfect because it would never end.

Wilson lifted his head. "I don't believe this. How could something this horrible happen?"

"Horrible things happen all the time," House stated. It was mundane, really, he told himself. "I don't have a job," he realized out loud.

"It's Cuddy!" Wilson's face turned red, tears still streaming down his face. "She's dead and all you can think about is your job?! Maybe she was right. After everything, you don't care. It's inhuman- what you'll go through to prove your indifference."

Wilson was just upset, but it was very hard not to scream at him, tell him that maybe, people didn't always say everything they thought. "She knows how I felt." He attempted to keep his voice level. Wilson was the only one he had left.

"She knows you didn't respect her opinion as a doctor. She thinks-" he winced at the change in tense, "-thought she'd be a bad mother because you told her so."

Wilson had it wrong. Cuddy knew she'd make a great mother, despite his wishy-washy opinion on the matter. "We kissed last night. She wanted me to stay. And then I got knocked unconscious with a wooden cane."

Wilson thought for a minute. "That's kind of like God slapping you in face. Did you not hear the big, booming voice from above telling you not to take what you have for granted?"

"It's not," House life without Cuddy was really twisted. Wilson was sarcastic...about religion...in a crisis. Maybe it was a coping mechanism.

"You don't think she's in a better place right now, looking down and saying, 'See, House? I told you so."

"First of all, you can't go to heaven if you're the devil incarnate." Sure, it was a cheap shot, but Wilson was annoying him and too many emotional moments had passed without a rude remark. "Secondly, you can't go to a place that doesn't exist."

"You seriously think she's just done?" Wilson wiped his eyes. "I'm holding on to the fact that she's not."

House nodded. "She doesn't deserve it, more than anyone." He slid his fingers around a curl. The blood had dried and hardened the strands.

Chase came up behind them. "I'm sorry, guys." He rubbed his lip and looked at her. "It was too much."

"Yeah." House looked at Wilson. "Will you call her parents?"

"You don't want to?" Wilson seemed surprised.

House couldn't. Wilson was much better at breaking the news of death anyway. Wilson was kind; House would probably just say something inappropriate. Cuddy wouldn't want him to make it any harder on them. "No. You're the angel of death."

Wilson rolled his eyes. At least he hadn't lost all sense of humor.

"I'm going to my office." There was nothing he could do. He was wasting time, just standing there, wishing the life back in her.

"That's it? You're ready to go back to work?" Wilson crossed his arms.

"Yeah," Chase chimed in. "At least wait until they finish." He nodded towards the nurses, still working to close the long incision on her abdomen.

"I can't bring her back," House shrugged. "What's the point?"

Wilson shook his head in disbelief. "You've skipped the entire grief process." He raised his eyebrows. "Unless you're in an accepting form of denial. Which sounds like something you would do."

"I'm not in denial." House challenged himself to take in her pale skin and lifeless body. It seemed like all she needed was a pinch of color and she would wake up. "Cuddy is dead. Gone. I'm going to go be sad in my office." He brushed Cuddy's face one last time and left. He felt a little guilty abandoning Wilson, but he would have Chase, and soon Cameron and Foreman.

House limped back to his wheelchair and pushed himself slowly out of the scrub room. Foreman, Thirteen, Taub, and Kutner were waiting outside. They all looked at him anxiously. "So...how'd it go?" Thirteen asked earnestly.

"Not well." He gritted his teeth for the reaction that was to come. "She didn't make it."

He sped away before they all started crying over him. Foreman caught up. "Are you okay? I know you two were close..."

House stopped abruptly and opened his mouth to protest.

Foreman interrupted, "And don't say you weren't."

House kept moving, but much slower this time. "Don't expect a profound change out of me. My world's a little more gloomy right now, but in ten years, it's not going to matter."

"How profound-"

House didn't catch the last part of his sentence. He was pushing the wheels as hard and fast as he could. He passed Cuddy's office on the way to his and only faltered for a second as a rush of deja vu hit him. He peered passed the wooden doors. She should be in there, flashing her clevage to a donor or bickering with him over a radical yet necessary test. He could almost see her, and then he was past it.

The wheelchair pulled up to his own office. His body felt heavy as he fell into his chair. He closed his eyes, desperately wanting to escape this life.

A/N: For all of you who want to kill me, I seriously hope you read this author's note before reviewing.

I know, I killed Cuddy. That DOESN'T happen.

But I promise: Next chapter-- lots of Huddy. Some kissing, some angsty, always hot. And it's not a flashback, and House is not a necrophiliac. So, don't worry.

Have I mentioned how awesome you guys are yet? Well, you are. I actually felt like someone was reading my story for once, which is why I updated this quickly.

I already have some of the next chapter written, but it's a looong one and I need some motivation.