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A More Perfect Fall
by melissaisdown
An incandescent fixture illuminates one side of House's face as
he broods in his own self loathing. Despair he knows will never pass
settles on him again, after a brief spell in its absence that was last
night. This was all more than a blunder, more than a mistake. The
man didn't believe in fate. He didn't believe things were out of his
control, but he does now.
After all the lives he's saved, it seems the only one that matters, that
has any lasting, permanent effect on his own, is the one he could not save.
A tragic irony,and even he suspects as much is deserved . Gregory House
is home now, alone again, forced into his own undesirable company.
A tinge of guilt pricks him about last night, uncertain if he took advantage,questioning now if too much was said. Trying to make this problem more
than it is, trying in vain to distract himself from the unease of not knowing
the future, of not knowing if his best friend hates him, feeling like
a murderer, he drinks. Whiskey. With an 'e'. Not the same as scotch.
All scotches are whisky but not all whiskey is scotch. A complicated
fact of life. Or atleast of his.
An irreparable heart, thub-dubbing in his chest, torn in an attempt
to resolve how he's made such a mess of everything. On top of
the list- sex with Cuddy. How did his balls go from being in her
vice grip to being in her mouth? This is why Wilson was better as a
friend, man's best companion is man. Simpler scenarios, beer, chips,
mini golf. Of course not even this much is true anymore.
Now as never before, House is paying a high price for living too long and
with such irreverence, such contempt. It will be a new world after Amber,
material without being real, where poor ghosts, shadows of his self, haunt
him until there is forgiveness.
From who, he knows not, as nobody remains.
Time passes. An uncertain amount. To sleep without dreaming, House
drinks. Restoring the memory of the bus crash has left him with
horrifying nightmares. The worst are the ones that seem portentous,
precipatory, as if when he awakens he can prevent it all from
happening. Sweat, panic and every time he closes his eyes he
sees Amber's face. A memory of Wilson in the hospital is what
he holds onto. Neither comforting or intolerable, seeing Wilson
move farther away from him remains an image replaying, always in his mind.
Yesterday, today, and tomorrow are just words but now they are the
same as pain. Misery can only escalate. House thought he was losing
his best friend when he entered the bar that night. Now he really has lost him,
and an infinite deal more.
Alone. With his cane. With his vicodin. With his conscience. The appeal
of suicide is beginning to entice him. Feeling solely responsible for Amber's
death, his own seems symmetrically appropriate. And nobody would
really miss him anyway. Not really. A medical background, a priceless asset
in this potential endeavor, he is ruminating about a dozen quick, painless ways
to do it. Then, the phone rings. In the first vibration of the air that the sound creates, there is hope. Attack, sustain, decay and as soon as the first ring finishes
all hope is gone. He knows it's not Wilson. He hesitates even to answer and confirm his disappointment. But eventually he does, hoping that chance is in his favor for a change.
But it is not. The telemarketer greets him with an announcement about how
mortgage payments have never been lower, and his heart breaks a little more.
As the receiver falls from his fingertips, a transformation takes place in the
silence. Anger diminishes. House realizes that it was the same self pity
that put him in the bar that night, and he throws the near empty bottles
of bourbon and scotch away. He showers, shaves away ten days worth
of whiskers, and deals with the puddle of vomit beside his bed. When the
hangover passes, he realizes his head doesn't hurt anymore and tells
himself he's recovered.
There is no God in his heart, he knows; his ideas are still in riot;
there was ever the pain of remembering; the regret, yet the waters of disillusion
had left a deposit on his soul. Everybody dies, he tries to convince himself.
That night he would sleep, free his conscience from the penitentiary it
had been condemned to, if only for a few unconscious hours.
The rest of the day is spent meandering. He reads, plays piano,
considers going to the hospital to bother Cuddy and convince her
he is coping. But doesn't. There was nothing he could have done to save
Amber,he tells himself. He told her to go home, she didn't have to get on the
bus, "It's not my fault. No. It's not my fault."
Denial was a strange state for Greg House. He was uncomfortable
lying to himself. His objectivity and intellect told him he knew better. They
were screaming at him, hopeless to ignore. But, everybody lies.
"I 'm selfish," he thinks.
"This isn't something that changes when I 'see human suffering' or
'help others.'"
This selfishness is not only a part of House. It is the most living part.
It is by somehow transcending rather than avoiding that selfishness
that he can bring poise and balance back into his life. But House does
not know this. All he does know is that there is no virtue of unselfishness
that can erase or negate this blunder. No sacrifices, no charitable deeds,
no thing he could give or endure that would alleviate any of the pain of
his actions.
The last person who will ever forgive House is House.
Tonight he lay in bed with nothing but hatred for himself. Hating
the choices he's made, hating his ego, hating that through it all he still
has no intention of ever changing. Grimaced, even with closed eyes
as he falls asleep.
With a complete lack of grace, House staggers out of bed. It's
morning, he thinks. Another storm and now his clock is blinking
12:00. And not entirely inaccurate. It is afternoon and as
he empties his bladder, the leg pain is almost too much. A strange
sound from the living room, but not much of a priority as he brings
as hand to his face and swallows the three vicodin in it. Looking himself
in the mirror, his eyes more glassy than they should be, revolting is the
image that he loathes. A sad, plain face and lucid, blue eyes, the
definition of his suffering. Another noise from the living room,
but he passes it off as a pile of books falling. And by books he of
course means porn.
Limping slowly and cautiously to the kitchen grasping at his
right leg along the way, House notices something, a purse on his couch,
he goes to turn his body toward it but his legs give out, both of them,
the left too tired from supporting the right's share. And he falls.
Arms reach out to keep him from dropping completely and help him
reclaim his balance and stance. Familiar arms, with small fingers and
impeccable timing, refusing to falter. He cannot recall a more perfect
fall because when he looks up into her eyes, it doesn't hurt at all.
House humiliated by his weakness,
"What are you doing here?"
"I came to talk to you."
Cuddy, as unobtrusively as she can, helps him to the couch.
"How long have you been here?"
"Not long, you were sleeping when I came in."
"Rough night?"
"I came to ask you for a favor."
"Really? I just assumed you were here to dispense more sympathy sex. That
is part of your job description isn't it?"
She ignores him. The circles under her eyes tell him she's serious.
"I've got a patient."
She gets a file out of her purse. Her hands tremble a little and House notices.
"You run a hospital, I would think there'd be more than one."
"Female, mid forties. Came into the clinic a week ago complaining of
fever, nausea, flu like symptoms and a rash. Treated for an allergy.
Returns to the ER three days ago in respiratory distress, a temperature
of 103, and infected lesions that resemble smallpox. She's quarantined
in the ICU..."
"Hypothyroidism?"
"ER tested her thyroid on admission."
"Atherosclerosis...and the flu, explains blisters, fever and breathing."
Cuddy shakes her head. House takes the case file.
"I know you're on leave, and I hate to even ask, but this woman will
die if we don't figure out what's causing all this. I've got your team
working on it, although Hadley has taken a few personal days. You
don't even have to go in if you don't feel like it just do what you
do from here, and call me or your team, if you think of anything."
House nods. Cuddy throws her head back, exhausted and closes her eyes.
In an attempt to be charming House slumps and rests his head on her shoulder.
Minutes pass. Calmed by the sound of her breathing, he goes to lay his
lips on the lower nook of her neck, but she moves, awakening and sitting
up before he can. Just the same, he rarely prevails in quiet acts of
unspoken sentiment anyway.
Cuddy puts a hand on his shoulder, picking up her purse.
"Thank you."
As she stands in the doorway,
"Cuddy, everything okay?"
"Fine. I'm just tired," yawning as she leaves.
Jotting down symptoms and connections to diseases, the day passes
quickly outside the hospital. He fills a notebook with more ideas and uncertainty.
Possibility.
Somewhere in House's mind a conversation begins, rather resumes its place
in his attention, it's composed not of two voices but of one which acts as questioner and answerer:
Question: Well,differential?
Answer: Woman, forties, lesions, fever, respiratory distress.
Q: Prime suspects?
A: That haven't been acquitted? viral hepatitis, hyperkalemia, intestinal
parasites, influenza, pericarditis, drug use, certain autoimmune...
Q: Which autoimmune?
A: Sarcoidosis, systemic lupus erythematosus...
Q: And?
A: Grave's disease.
Q: They already discounted her thyroid.
A: Right.
Q: So?
A: Tuberous sclerosis, lymphangioleiomyomatosis. LAM explains dyspnea,
the flu symptoms and respiratory problems.
Q: And the lesions?
A: Her immune system is failing her, why can't it be an infection?
Q: Small pox?
A: She's been vaccinated. Nothing strange in her history except breast cancer and early menopause. LAM's your best bet.
Q: It's rare.
A: So? Atleast it's not boring.
Q: Are you going to call your team before she goes into a coma?
No answer. He picks up the phone and gets Foreman, telling him to try
plasma exchange on the patient, which will cleanse her blood of the
antibodies responsible for her immune system's failure. Foreman listens
but orders a test for tuberous sclerosis to confirm.
House calls Cuddy to boast arrogantly about the fact he diagnosed a
rare multisystemic disorder in a few hours from the comfort of his
own living room, but no answer. He tries again fifteen minutes later, but still
no answer.
Deciding he feels like celebrating he heads out. He knows where he'll end up, but takes his time getting there.
House rings the doorbell, waits. A light is on inside, and her car is in
the driveway. Rings again. Is she ignoring him? Why now? How could
she even know it's him? And then his heart sinks. Immediately and
without hesitation he reaches for her spare key from the spot he knows she
keeps it and runs in, knowing something is wrong.
Feet, he sees feet. Tiny, no longer bruised, far back near her bedroom.
House dashes to her unconscious body prostrate on the floor. A hand is
to her neck, checking her pulse before his knee touches ground. He lifts
her head up, limp in his hands and looks at her face, for swelling, examining
her head for an injury. His face is panic. The kind of disaster victims. Of a
person about to witness a trainwreck, a car crash, an execution.
"Cuddy, can you hear me?" His voice cracks.
The faintest lament from her lips.
Dialing before his cell phone is even out of his pocket,
" I need an ambulance..."
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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