** CHAPTER 47 **

"It's me. Geez, you know I hate talking to a fucking voicemail! Come on, what's that crap about? I don't get it. Is it about the key? Coz I know you didn't want the key. That you think it was too much … Well, fine, ok. Let's say I understand, but shit, Cuddy, what you did today? This is not ok! You hear me? You need to explain … just call me when you have this message."

House slammed his cell shut and put it atop the piano. The sheet of paper was still there, in front of his eyes, but he couldn't look at it. He couldn't look at it without feeling like he was lacking air to breathe. He couldn't resign himself to read what it was saying. He was refusing to see it.

I CAN'T DO THIS ... US
I'M SORRY

What kind of bullshit was that? Why? It was incomprehensible. It was beyond all understanding. He drank a few more drinks to convince himself that it was exactly that: Simply irrational and unbelievable. What had he done wrong? Where had he screwed up? He'd tried so hard. God, so hard!

And he was just starting to believe that it was working, that things were easy. He was feeling good again because life was so simple with her. Like a pleasant journey you wish would never end. So, it couldn't be over just like that, without any warning. No, it couldn't…

The pain in his leg was throbbing. It felt as if a knife was stabbing into his scar, repeatedly. His bottle of Bourbon was slowly emptying, and House was irrepressibly getting drunk. Drunk and miserable. He checked his watch and the dial indicated that two hours had passed since he'd first called her.

But she hadn't called back.

His tongue was furred, and he was becoming dizzy. But he could still feel his anger. An ugly anger, aimed at her. Because of what she'd done…

"Cuddy? … Lisa! Pick up the phone! Dammit, pick up the damn phone! Why don't you call me back? Why are you doing this? Are you fucking irresponsible? I thought you were smart, but you know what? You're just a silly bitch, like every other… every other…"

His voice choked and he hung up. He stared at his cell for some long, painful seconds before his eyes started to burn. He took a deep breath and rubbed his eyelids forcefully.

No. He was not going to cry for her. He was not going to cry for a woman again.

He stumbled to his coffee table with the bottle of bourbon in his hand and collapsed in the couch. He poured himself another dose of numbing alcohol. He brought the glass to his lips and drank the first sip, slowly. The burning sensation in his eyes came back so he downed the whole glass in one to try and stop the unstoppable.

He looked around him and everything in the room started becoming blurry. He squeezed the empty glass tighter in his hand until he made it crack. The sharp rim cut him deep above the hollow of his wrist and he let the glass fall on the floor. A thin trickle of blood ran from his hand down onto the leather of his couch.

"Ok. I get it. You don't want to talk to me. Fine. But I'd be damned if I let you do this… I can't let you do this. Fuck! You need to see a doctor. Come on, you're smarter than that! You're not a silly bitch … I'm sorry I said that … I didn't mean to … Cuddy, please … call me back … Just call me back…"

He hung up, for the third time, and that's when he finally felt it roll down his cheek. One single tear. It was warm, and it ended on the corner of his lips. He closed his eyes and licked it. It was salty. But that was nothing more than the alcohol effect, right? Yes, it was just the alcohol…

The room around him was now spinning. He took a deep breath to repress the growing feeling of nausea and gagged instead. His fingers grasped the couch's armrest with a convulsive clutch as he waited for the sickening sensation to subside. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and he felt the ferric taste of blood on his lips. He looked at his hand and saw the cut. So, he gathered the few remaining strength he still had and struggled to stand up.

His legs nearly gave way under him as he tried to stay steady. He waited until he found the right balance, until his breath went back to a seemingly normal rhythm again and then, rubbing his painful thigh, he staggered to his bathroom.

In the hallway, a weird sensation suddenly invaded his body. He understood he was about to collapse and tried to hold on to the wall, but he couldn't. He blinked to fight the inevitable black out, his mind trying to stay awake, but it was pointless: He fainted and fell on the floor with a loud thud.

# # # # #

A few hours later, as House no longer was under Vicodin's effect, the sensation of pain in his leg woke him up. There was dry blood on his jeans and his head hurt like hell. He was feeling numb, dizzy and nauseous. He gripped his bad thigh as strongly as he could and propped himself up with his elbow. Pain squeezed a moan in his throat, and he closed his eyes. He finally managed to sit up straight and rested his back on the wall, breathing heavily.

With a shaky hand, he delved in his jean's pocket and fished the orange bottle out with a trembling hand. He rubbed his red-rimmed eyes, his vision too blurry to see clearly, and opened the bottle. Feverishly, he slid two pills into the palm of his hand and swiftly put them in his mouth, throwing his head back to swallow them dry. He waited, with his head tilted back, until he felt the drug fall inside his stomach.

The sole fact of swallowing the pills took a small part of his pain away. It made the sensation lower from excruciatingly unbearable to just excruciating. He knew that it was just the placebo effect, though, because he knew that more than half an hour was required for the pills to take effect, but excruciating was something he could deal with. He just wanted to get rid of the unbearable part of the pain. He rummaged in his pocket again and retrieved his cell phone, hoping to find a sign from her.

But there was nothing. It was three-thirty in the morning, and nobody had called.

"Cuddy … Where are you? It's the middle of the night … Don't do this to me. Please … I'm in pain … I need you… Call me."

Each syllable had sounded like an incomprehensible, gloomy grumble. House moaned into the receiver and his hand gripped the cell tightly, hopelessly waiting for some reaction, but there wouldn't be one, and he knew it. He stared at his watch again. She wouldn't call. He had to sleep if he could. He needed to wait. Tomorrow, they would have an explanation. But not now. Now was too late. She wouldn't call.

He had no strength left and the pain in his leg, though less hard, was still pounding. He took a deep breath and tried to stand up. It took him ten laborious, miserable minutes to manage to lift his body off the ground. Then, shifting all his weight against the wall, he reeled to his bedroom. He opened the nightstand's drawer and found some old sleeping pills he kept there since the time he'd had his head injury. He opened the bottle and slid some pills in his hand without counting them. Two, three? He pushed them inside his throat and crumpled in his bed.

# # # # #

The sound of his cell shook House out of his torpor. He sat bolt upright and struggled to pull the phone out of his pocket, holding his breath.

"Where are you?" he almost shouted into the receiver.

"You know I was going to ask you the same question!" Wilson's voice answered.

House removed the phone from his ear and collapsed back on the mattress, taking several deep breathes, trying to repress the huge feeling of disappointment he'd just felt. He covered his face with his hand to protect his eyes from the aggressive sunlight spreading all over the room. Coming from inside the receiver, he could perceive Wilson's voice getting impatient.

"House? House! Are you there?"

He sighed and brought the receiver back to his ear.

"I'm sleeping, well, was … until you woke me up," he grunted.

"Yeah, sleeping! Sure. You know, I'm not saying you and Cuddy shouldn't enjoy some good times together, but it's almost noon, and-"

House tried to gather his rational thoughts to process what was implied under Wilson's words.

"Wilson?" he said, his voice trembling. "You haven't seen Cuddy?"

Wilson didn't seem to register the worry in his friend's voice.

"What are you talking about? House! Come on, it's not funny. I know you think not showing at work is not a big deal, but actually it is … kind of a big deal … especially when you're the boss. So, go back to sleep if you want but geez, if someone had told me I'd have to ask you that someday … well, ok … put Cuddy on please … House? … House?!"

On the other end of the line, Wilson heard nothing other than the sound of the dial tone again. He frowned and shook his head disapprovingly before hanging up the phone.

…

House had ridden there. As soon as he'd heard Wilson say she wasn't at the hospital, he'd jumped out of bed and without even changing his clothes, even less taking a shower, he'd left his apartment, ignoring the pain in his leg, ignoring the dizziness, ignoring the injury on his hand. He'd ridden there again, as fast as he could.

He was now parked in front of Cuddy's house, sitting on his bike's saddle, across the road, and he was looking toward her door. Find the strength to stand up and cross that road. Find strength to go there. Knock. Check…

He limped heavily toward her steps. How many times had he walked in that alley to her door? And yet, deep inside, he couldn't pretend he didn't know… because that would've been a lie. He knew there was no need to knock. Something already told him she wasn't there. But he just needed to check. Be sure.

He leaned down to the flowerpot under which Cuddy was keeping her extra key and he lifted it, holding his breath... But there was no extra key. He bit his bottom lip while he mechanically put his hand inside his jeans' pocket and fiddled the crumpled piece of paper he had put in there.

I CAN'T DO THIS ... US
I'M SORRY

"Lisa … Seriously? You can't disappear like that… You can walk out of my apartment if you want … Even walk out of your house… but the hospital?! … No … Where are you? Fuck, where the hell are you?"

He crossed the road back and straddled his bike again.

…

Wilson was working in a peaceful silence when his office's door violently banged against the wall making him jumped in his chair. Storming inside, House walked right to the front of his desk and stopped abruptly, standing there, in a mute daze. He looked like he had been hit by a train. His hair was a mess, and he was scruffy beyond the limits of scruffiness.

"Wow, you look like Hell!" Wilson exclaimed before focusing back on his paperwork, completely heedless of House's state of mind.

"I need you to make a phone call."

"Ha, so now you need my 'boy scout voice'?"

"Fuck you! I need you to make that call. Now!"

Wilson put his pen down slowly, lifted his face up and suddenly seemed to see how utterly crushed House looked. He stared at his friend, worry clouding his face over.

"House, what's wrong?" he said, gravity registering in his tone.

House threw the crumpled paper on Wilson's desk. The oncologist raised his eyebrows quizzically, and House shot him a silent nod to encourage him to take it, which he did. He unfolded the piece of paper and read what was written on it. He kept his head down, looking at the paper for a long time, processing the news, taking deep breathes, but not daring to look up at his friend. When he finally found the courage to face him again, Wilson looked up and handed House the paper back.

"When?" he simply asked.

House averted his gaze.

"Yesterday," he answered, looking outside through the window. "She didn't go to her appointment. She cancelled."

"House, I'm … I don't know what to say. Maybe she's-"

"I need you to call Gruber," House cut him short. "Maybe she went there after all. But I can't make the call myself, I-"

"That's ok. I'll do it," Wilson said empathetically.

…

"Yes … thank you very much … Well, certainly … Maybe next month? For that conference on fertility meds side-effects?"

House glared impatiently at him.

"Of course! Ha-ha, yes … Ok, thanks. Goodbye."

Wilson put the receiver back and sighed heavily. There was really no need for him to be specific. His sorry eyes were saying it all already.

"No sign of her there, too," House stated, more than he asked, as if he needed to phrase it aloud to process the fact.

Wilson set his lips and slowly shook his head. House puffed, looking distraught, and he violently tapped the tip of his cane on the floor in a raging outburst. Then he took his cell and nervously dialed her number. Again.

"Ok. You wanted to piss me off? Well, congratulations, Cuddy: You got what you wanted! Because this? THIS … is the most goddamn stupid thing you've ever done! So, stop playing that fucking ridiculous game and bring your ass back here, now!"

He slammed his cell shut and sustained Wilson's shocked glare. After merely a few seconds, though, Wilson cast his eyes down, incapable of stomaching the image. House's eyes were red and dimmed with tears. As he was looking down, Wilson's eyes ended up on his friend's hands holding his cane's handle, and he saw what he hadn't noticed until then.

"House!" he exclaimed, shocked. "You've been bleeding! What did you do to your hand?"

House promptly covered his injury with his other hand.

"Nothing," he deflected. "I need you to do something else-"

He couldn't tell what it was because they were interrupted by the sound of Wilson's cell phone ringing. The oncologist grabbed it and incredulously stared at the inscription on the screen saying "unknown" before picking up and bringing the receiver to his ear.

"Dr. Wilson."

On the other end of the line, he heard a gasp. Then a short silence.

"Hello?"

"Wilson please … Tell him to stop calling me."

Then the click of the phone being hung up. Wilson froze up and kept his cell in his hand, unable to move. He felt the weight of House stare on him, and at that moment, even though he hoped he wouldn't have to answer that question, he knew he wouldn't be able to avoid it.

"Who was it?"

There. That question. He raised his face and, trying to hide his discomfort, he faced House's intense, scrutinizing gaze. House tilted his head to the side and studied his friend. And suddenly, he gasped loudly and pointed a furious finger at him.

"It was her, wasn't it?... Where is she? What did she say? Where is she?"

Wilson remained silent and looked at his friend with sorrow.

"What did she say?" House yelled, looming over the desk menacingly.

Wilson leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath. There was no easy way of saying it so he might as well be straightforward.

"She … wants you to stop calling her… House, I'm sorry. I'm-"

An awful smirk contorted House's features then, making Wilson shut up before he could finish expressing his feeling of sympathy. He watched as House's trembling hand grabbed his cell phone again and brought it to his ear.

"Hah! Of course, voicemail again … so brave of you … So, now you beg Wilson to make me stop calling you? But here's some news: I won't! Not until you give me a good explanation! I deserve to know, Cuddy … And I want to hear the words coming out of your mouth! You think a fucking sheet of paper saying you're leaving will do it! Hell no! You can tell me you can't do 'this' … You can even call me shit if you want … but at least just have the guts to call me to say it!"

Wilson stared at his friend, completely stunned. He hadn't seen him in such a rage since a very long time. He hadn't seen him hurt like that since…

"You really think that's how you're going to convince her to come back?" he asked, appalled, but mostly feeling immensely sad for his friend.

House glowered silently at him and then turned on his heel before storming out as unpredictably as he'd stormed in moments before.

A/N

Yes, as of now, Cuddy did leave, for real… Sorry…

I hope you'll share your thoughts on this with me.

~ maya