Warning for graphic description of a suicide attempt.

Despite the fact that Dr Jamie Bower had been the Meadow View's in-house physician for five years, he had to admit that he rarely treated resident Gregory House. Not because Gregory House was a relatively healthy resident – in fact, he was one of the most sickly, thanks to his liver and heart problems, not to mention the post-traumatic epilepsy – but because he had his own personal team of doctors. Oh, and also because Greg absolutely refused to cooperate with him, protesting in small but very much observable ways.

It was a little intimidating, actually, for a relatively normal doctor like him to have to deal with all these reknowned doctors. And also extremely annoying. He couldn't do anything for Greg without second-guessing himself or worrying that he was doing something that would be cause for interrogation by Dr Chase or Dr Cuddy. Dr Cameron was the more understanding one - he could at least chat with her occasionally. Dr Chase and Dr Cuddy though… they had exacting standards of absolute hell.

Chase breezed into House's room cheerfully, the tub of ice-cream sweating in his hand. Seeing House asleep, he stuffed the ice-cream into the mini-fridge at the corner of the room, and let the pretense of cheerfulness slip off his face.

Chewing on his lip, he began to check on House's condition. The chest was sounding slightly crackly, and the low-grade fever showed no signs of abating. The chart showed two complex-partial seizures in the past twenty-four hours. Two too many for Chase, but he knew House tended to have seizures when he was running a fever.

At the feel of the cool metal of the stethoscope on his chest, House stirred.

"Morning… I could hear you snoring from down the hallway," Chase murmured gently. House was always a little disoriented when he woke up. He needed some time to get his engines going. "Your chest is sounding a little crackly, hmm?" He let his fingers brush against House's skin every once in a while as he examined House. Little signs of affection. "Don't want it to get into full-blown pneumonia, yeah? Can't ever forget how disastrous that was last year."

Fifteen years ago, he would never have imagined himself talking to his cantankerous, fiercely independent mentor in this way.

Yet, here he was now.

" 'ase," House blinked sluggishly several times, somehow sounding both happy and scared at the same time. "'Immy."

Chase lowered the railing of the bed, and sat down on the edge of the bed. House curled his fingers slightly, and Chase acquiesced, slipping his hand into House's. "Wilson's flight got delayed for a few hours. He's coming, okay?"

There was a pause as House processed Chase's statement. Chase held his breath.

"Bad Howz." House's face crumpled. Crap. "Not coming."

"No no no no," Chase soothed. He pulled House into his arms carefully, mindful of the tubes. He rested House's head against his shoulder, and rubbed circles on House's back. This was when it worst: when House lost sense of time and travelled back to a time when Wilson had left and had not come back. "He's coming back. We're celebrating your birthday tomorrow, remember?"

House's head drooped. "Not coming," he repeated, starting to cry. "Bad Howz. Sorry." Chase could feel House feebly try to push himself away from Chase. But he refused to give in.

It was, actually, what House would have done years ago – pull away emotionally, not let anyone in. But here, now, he had his heart on his sleeve all the time, and what he felt was plain for anyone and everyone to see.

It made them feel less helpless, and they could do more for him. It was nice not being pushed away. But they all rued what it had cost for him to 'open up'.

Despite Chase's repeated assurances that Wilson was indeed on his way, House remained restless and distressed, repeating sorry and bad Howz. Chase could only wipe House down with a cool cloth, and humming tuneless, but comforting tunes.

Once in a while, he would find himself saying sorry back to House. All these years, and he still couldn't quite accept how things had come to this stage. He'd had a part to play in it too – if he hadn't agreed to do the DBS, perhaps Wilson would never have had the chance to blame House for Amber's death. That was the slippery slope that had led them all to this. And he would never know for sure if his DBS procedure had been a factor in House developing post-traumatic epilepsy.

Guilt. It was a powerful motivator.

In hindsight, the first sign of things going wrong was probably House's sudden aversion to the color red. Why they hadn't noticed it, they would never know, and they would rue that fact for years to come.

Overnight, his giant tennis ball, red mug and other knick-knacks with the color red disappeared. They found the fragments of his mug in his trash bin.

Then came the copious amounts of energy drinks he was chugging, together with the coffee. He practically vibrated with caffeinated energy, and he went around a lot more cheerful than seemed possible. He solved cases frighteningly fast, not hesitating to force himself to stay overnight at the hospital. Epiphanies came fast and furious despite Wilson not being around – sometimes, the team didn't even have to say anything. He would be staring into space when the look would dawn upon his face and he would gleefully spring up and speed off towards the patient's room. He didn't nap anymore in the day, instead crushing the cans of coffee and energy drinks up and tossing them into his bin with unerring accuracy.

They would catch him talking to what seemed like no-one, only to have him reveal that he was on his Bluetooth headset "talking to my favourite hooker in Russia".

At least he was joking with them and leading them on differentials again. He still kept to himself and was more detached, and the jokes were a little contrived to those of the past, but at least they had made a reappearance.

It was better than the lack of caring about anything. It was definitely better to have him pick himself up and get on with life without Wilson.

He threw himself into organizing Chase's bachelor party with uncharacteristic excitement. It was almost manic. But they decided that he was that way than another.

Cameron didn't quite like the idea of Chase having a wild stag night. But the fact that House was having what seemed like a lot of fun, made her relent; not to mention the fact that her fiancé needed to get out and have some fun, not keep mulling over the tragic events that had occurred in the past few months. Even Cuddy turned a blind eye to the fact that he set a corpse on alcohol-fueled fire in the morgue.

It was like he was House again. The spark in his eyes had returned, and he seemed to be getting better. They all breathed more easily.

No one really quite noticed how his energy and enthusiasm tapered off before the anticipated event. The Bluetooth headset disappeared, and he started spacing out, losing grip on reality. He spent almost all of the party locked in the bathroom, with no mood to entertain the countless strippers or join in the obnoxious and crude games that were the norm for stag nights.

When Chase went into anaphylactic shock from the strawberry body butter the hooker had so generously applied on her body, however, House emerged from the bathroom.

It was plain to him now, the truth. Painfully plain.

As Chase lay in the ambulance en-route to the hospital, just in case, House was hanging on to the edge of his shirt with white-knuckled fists. Chase couldn't ignore the fact that House was chanting under breath "don't die don't die don't die don't die".

He removed the oxygen mask that wasn't entirely necessary. "I'm not going to die," he managed to croak out. "I'm fine, see?"

House didn't react to that, instead staring at some corner of the ambulance. He shook his head, hard, as if to clear it. "No," he said once, not even looking at Chase. He retreated to lean against the wall, staring at the corner of the ambulance with wide eyes.

House made a reappearance in the ER cubicle a while later, while Chase was getting checked out by the attending on duty. There was an odd look on his face, one that Chase couldn't place. Something was wrong.

House had his bag slung over his shoulder. He came to stand at the foot of the bed, intentionally keeping some distance away between him and Chase, silent and watching as the attending examined Chase.

"I'm fine, House," Chase reassured. His mind, though, was working in overdrive. Something was wrong, and he couldn't figure it out. The look on House's face… something was just wrong. "It was a blast of a party."

House shot a furtive look to the left. His voice was oddly flat. "I nearly killed you."

"It was an accident," Chase responded, frowning.

"I knew you were allergic to strawberries."

"You couldn't control what kind of body butter she used."

"I know she uses strawberry-flavored body butter."

"It was an accident, House. You can't be expected to remember every small detail about me, or anyone else."

House's lips twisted upwards in a crooked smile that just seemed wrong. It didn't reach his eyes. "I'm sorry," he offered, eyes still fixed on some distance corner of the cubicle.

Chase followed his gaze. The only things there were some ER supplies, which weren't even being used. House's gaze stuttered back towards Chase, and he had to visibly force himself to make eye-contact with Chase's own concerned blue eyes.

"I have to go. Patient." He paused, and then added, "Goodbye."

Chase watched House's retreating back as he sat there on the lumpy ER gurney. Something was desperately wrong. He couldn't place his finger on it. He checked his watch – it was ten, nearly eleven at night.

The word goodbye resonated with Chase. It conveyed a sense of finality and doom that did not sit well with him at all.

Wouldn't goodnight have been better?

Chase didn't know how he came to the conclusion, or why exactly he did, but when he did, he scrambled out of the ER.

"Where is he?" he asked breathlessly the receptionists. "Did you see Dr House pass by this way?"

They shook their heads in the negative. In fact, no one had seen House leave the hospital. Chase punched out a 911 to Cuddy before heading up to the Diagnostics Department, which was empty. Everything was in its place, untouched. Foreman, however, was in the conference room. He must have checked on the patient after coming from the bachelor party.

"Did you see House?" The words fell out of Chase's mouth in a rush.

Foreman looked up from his laptop. "Yes," he said slowly. "He came up just now."

"Did he say anything?"

"He said good luck." Foreman frowned. "He was acting a little weird, actually. Then he took his bag and left."

With a hollow feeling in his chest, Chase made his way up to the roof. What he saw there made his heart stop.

House stood at the ledge, his shirt fluttering slightly in the breeze as he leaned over the edge with his arms outstretched. He stood there casually, staring at the space in front of him. He seemed to be talking to someone, turning his head occasionally to talk to the non-existent person standing next to him.

As Chase advanced slowly towards House, who was unaware of his presence, he felt as though he were travelling in a fog. It was surreal. He could hear Foreman's curse, and Foreman telling him that he was going for help and a sedative.

Chase felt like his ears were wrapped in cotton wool; all he could focus on was the sight of House, on a ledge, six floors from the ground.

"House," Chase croaked. He cleared his throat, then tried again. "House."

House whipped around. His eyes widened.

"What are you doing, House?"

House smiled. "Hi, Chase," he whispered. He seemed distracted, his gaze stuttering to a point three feet from Chase's left ear. The fake smile slid off his face like jell-o off a tilted plate.

"Please get down from there." Chase kept his voice low and calm despite the fact that tension and fear thrummed through his every vein. "It's dangerous there."

House however, seemed unable to focus on Chase fully. His fingers twitched and his eyes darted everywhere except to focus on Chase.

Chase took a step closer. He raised his voice slightly. "House. Look at me. I'm here."

House finally managed to make eye contact with Chase. What Chase saw in those blue eyes took his breath away. The spark had now transformed into a manic, unnaturally bright gleam that chilled Chase to the bone. Chase wildly pushed the thought of them all misinterpreting what they thought had been an excited spark in House's eyes out of his head.

"I can't make her stop," House said softly. He sounded like a lost child, voice uncertain and trembling. "I tried, but she won't stop."

"Make who stop?"

"She's everywhere," House said. "At my apartment, here, in the diner – I said I was sorry!" He didn't seem to be talking to Chase anymore, his eyes no longer fixed on Chase's. "He didn't believe me!"

Chase could feel his heart speeding up. "House." When House failed to respond, he tried again. "House."

House tore his gaze away from the non-existent person he was seeing and with much difficulty, focused upon Chase again. Chase tried not to let his voice waver. "Who are you talking to, House?"

House didn't answer.

"House."

Distractedly, House spared a glance at Chase.

"Who are you talking to?"

A pause, then House finally answered, "Amber."

Chase felt his heart drop into his gut as his suspicion was confirmed. Now, all the times House spent talking to the Russian hooker on the Bluetooth headset finally made sense.

"How long has this been going on?"

"Doesn't matter."

"It does."

A pause. "Five weeks." House chuckled humorlessly. "I'm going mad, aren't I?"

"No," Chase ascertained, though he seriously had no idea. He had never excelled in his psychiatry modules. "No, you're not going mad. I'm sure there's an explanation. We'll get you some help, and then we'll work – "

"I'm losing my mind," House was talking more to himself than talking to Chase. "She was helping at first, and everything was so much easier with her around. But now she won't stop. And she's actually right."

"Right?" By now, all Chase was trying to do was draw things out while waiting for backup. He surreptitiously peeked at his phone – though there was no need to hide it, House was that distracted – and hoped like hell that Foreman would appear soon. "Right about what?"

"Her. Mom. Kutner."

Something dawns on Chase. "It's not your fault, House."

"Shouldn't have gotten on the bus. Should have paid more attention to Mom's test results. Should have known he was suicidal."

"You couldn't have known – "

"I should have known," House yelled. He covered his ears with his hands and screwed his eyes shut tight. Chase took the opportunity to take two steps closer before House opened his eyes. "If Wilson came to get me, he would be the one who's dead."

"No – he would have picked you up - "

"Should have noticed that Mom's health was deteriorating – "

"House – "

"Shouldn't have been so tough on Kutner,"

"No, House, listen to me –"

"I have a gun," House abruptly said. "I have my dad's gun at home, but I don't dare to use it." He swayed on the spot for a while before he shot out his hand to steady himself against the low wall. "Yeah," he muttered after a while, eyes on the ground. "I'm a coward."

"House, listen to me." Chase stepped closer, his hands out in front of him. "I know things look bleak now – "

"I don't want to be in pain."

Chase sucked in a deep breath. "No one wants to be in pain."

"Wilson thinks I want everyone to be in pain. I spread misery, and I want everyone to be miserable." House tightened his jaw and clenched his fist. "I don't want that for anyone."

"Because you know what it's like," Chase finished for House. "And you don't want anyone to feel the same."

House's nostrils flared.

Chase took that as a yes. "House – "

"I want this to stop," House pleaded. "Make her stop. I've tried everything, but she won't stop."

"It's okay. We'll work something out, and – "

"Wilson's gone. I killed Mom, Kutner and Amber. My leg hurts like fuck, and I'm going crazy." House took a deep breath, and turned away from Chase. "She's right. This can't be fixed. I can't be fixed."

It was the first time in months that House had mentioned Wilson. The use of she caught Chase's ear too. Amber was a hallucination, so she was a figment of House's consciousness. What she said, was what House felt deep down as well. It was what House was feeling.

"Mom's dead. Kutner's dead. She says one day, I'm going to kill someone with my own bare hands… I nearly did that today. I don't want that. I don't want to kill anyone. I've got blood on my hands, Chase."

House turned to eye the low ledge between him and the precipitous drop six floors down, and he turned away from Chase. Chase felt his heart stutter, and he stumbled toward House. "House, don't – "

The wall was at least four feet high, and it was a significant obstacle for House to surmount. House evidently knew it, because he whirled around. "Don't come any closer!" a hysterical edge was evident in House's voice. "Please. Don't!"

"Don't do this, House." Chase pleaded. He took another tiny step forward. "Please. We'll do anything it takes – things will get better."

"It won't." House stared distractedly out over the Princeton cityscape. "I've tried, but it never gets better."

Ketamine, thought Chase. It had been a shining beacon of hope in that brief period of time, only for it all to crash and burn spectacularly, culminating in the mess with Tritter.

"Trust me, House." Chase felt his eyes burn. "Please. Don't do this. We need you."

"No one needs me," House replied matter-of-factly. "I need them, but no one needs me back." He hoisted his bad leg over the ledge. "So it's okay. Tell Cuddy I'm sorry that she'll need to clean up after me."

(Years later, the image of House letting himself fall off the rooftop would remain seared in Chase's mind. And it would shock him that House looked relieved, that he was finally being set free from his miserable life in this world.

But that's years later.)

It was like everything was occurring in slow-motion. Chase willed his legs to move faster, but it still felt like he was weighed down by a ton of rocks. He could feel his every heartbeat, could hear every harsh breath his lungs expelled, could hear the rush of blood in his very veins. He lunged over the ledge desperately, fingers scrabbling at thin air before miraculously, against all odds, he clutched at House's wrist.

It was instinctive, Chase knew, that House wrapped his long fingers around Chase's hand. But at that instant, Chase took it as a sign that House did want to live – he just didn't know how.

"Don't let go," he urged breathlessly. "Please don't let go, House. Please."

House's fingers were wrapped tight around Chase's wrist. But as he looked up and into Chase's eyes, the desolation and misery plain in his blue eyes, Chase knew what was going to happen next.

"House. God, don't," Chase begged. "Don't let go."

House slowly slackened his grip around Chase's wrist, and let himself become deadweight. Chase could feel his palms begin to sweat, and House beginning to slip from his grasp. Chase could feel his entire world narrow to just the two of them at this very moment, all sound and sight fading away to just the image of House hanging from a building, hanging from his very hands, in front of him. Chase scrabbled desperately to hold onto House, his ribs pressed painfully against the concrete ledge as he lifted a foot to plant it against the ledge for added leverage.

"I can't make her stop," House admitted. "I don't know what to do."

"We'll figure it out together. Just hang on. Please."

"I can't sleep. I'm losing my mind, and it's all I have left." House closed his eyes, and then shuddered. "I really did it this time. Wilson left. He's not coming back. He's gone." It felt almost surreal when House started to pry at Chase's fingers, getting him to let go. "I tried my best, but it wasn't enough. Dad was right. Being sorry isn't good enough."

Chase couldn't quite follow House's erratic train of thought. All he was thinking was please don't die please don't die. All he could focus on was to hold on to House while House scrabbled desperately at his fingers, scratching and prying, trying to get him to let go. "No," he repeated again and again. "No."

"I shouldn't have come back," House finally said, brokenly. He gave up trying to get Chase to let go, letting his right arm drop and dangle. "I shouldn't have come back. I should have stayed there, on the bus. It doesn't hurt there."

Chase found himself crying. "Please don't, House. I promise, we'll figure this out. Please… just hang on. Don't give up."

"Sorry," House mouthed. "I'm so sorry." He began to wrench his wrist, and it was all Chase could do to not scream in frustration.

House was almost out of Chase's grasp when Chase felt a warm body press up against him, another pair of hands joining him in his struggle to keep House alive.

Foreman. Oh god, Foreman. Finally.

Between the two of them, they managed to haul House up over the ledge and onto the relative safety of the rooftop despite the older man's struggling. They collapsed into a messy heap at the foot of the low wall, a tangle of limbs and bodies. For a moment, it was chaos as House struggled against the grip of his two team members.

Chase somehow managed to wrap his arms around House.

"Let me go," House panted, and it frightened Chase, hearing House so desperate and out of control and ready to give up. He'd never seen House like that before. Angry, yes. Depressed, yes. But never so desolate and broken, and never had he once given up. The rough noise that ripped itself from House's throat just made Chase hold House tighter. "She won't stop."

"I know," Chase didn't know how or why, but he started rocking. He rocked back and forth, House's face buried in his shoulder. It was an innate movement meant to soothe. "It's going to get better, I swear. We'll make her stop, and things will get better."

"I'm sorry…" House moaned. He clenched his fist in Chase's shirt and pulled on it like a child seeking comfort. "I'm so sorry."

Chase knew House wasn't apologizing for what had just transpired.

"I know… I know…"

Chase exchanged glances with Foreman, who looked more shaken than Chase had ever seen. He was sprawled on the ground, as though he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing with his own eyes.

"He doesn't believe me…"

"You tried your best…" Chase gestured for the sedative, which Foreman handed over with shaking hands. "You tried your best, and that is all that matters. He'll realize it one day. He will."

A strangled noise from House. "I killed them. I killed them."

"No no no no," Chase replied fiercely. "It's not your fault… We're going to get you better, and things are going to be okay."

House squirmed in Chase's hold in one last bid to escape, but Chase just squeezed him tighter. When was the last time House had been hugged by anyone?

"I'm sorry," Chase whispered. "But please, trust me."

House began to thrash for real when he felt the needle of the syringe pierce his skin. But the sedative soon took effect, draining him of his fight. Slowly, his head drooped, his limbs lost their tension, and he all but collapsed into Chase's arms.

Chase sat at the foot of the rooftop ledge, House limp in his arms; Foreman sat a few feet away, breathing hard, not quite believing what he'd just witnessed.

Three days later, Wilson would send his email. But it was too late.

Guilt. It was a powerful motivator.

A/N: Not how House became the way he was, but still a turning point in this story. I have it all planned out. Real life is becoming slightly more forgiving, so I think I can safely say that updates for this and other stories will start to come more regularly. Next chapter, we have the inevitable: Wilson returns to Princeton.