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Into the Evening
by sapfu
A/N: I have no excuse for this. Inspired by a song called "Reaching out." I'm not sure who did the song, but if you want to hear it just send me a message. Hope I submitted this correctly.
Disclaimer: Not a chance. :[
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He's startled to find that when he comes to, he's shivering; lying sprawled out on his back on the cold, hard cement, chunks of concrete digging into his spine.
It takes him a moment before the pain catches up, and when it hits he hisses and squirms, his mind reeling. He thinks if he just lies quiet long enough, his genius will come up with at least three good reasons why this can't be real. It's only when he notices that strange, familiar smell--rust and salt and fear--that he knows, and he presses his hand against his side, wincing.
And there's so much blood.
He's coughing again, and he's wheezing, a sickly wet sound in his chest that doesn't sound normal at all.
It's bad, it's so bad--
* * *
His coat and shoes are gone, and he can see his cane an arms length away, taunting him. He vaguely recalls calling for help, though no one came.
Strange.
He always knew he would die alone, maybe even by his own hand, but this--he has to admit, this is a surprise.
He can practically see that vacant, far-away look Cuddy gets sometimes; he's sure Cameron will cry--she always does--but Foreman and Chase, he thinks, will meet the news of his passing with a somber, solaced sort of silence, and the three of them will stand around one another with their arms crossed and expressions unreadable.
He shuts his eyes and his chest jumps as he coughs; he prefers not to think of what Wilson's reaction will be, and it bothers him that it bothers him.
* * *
He scarcely wonders if he should be panic-stricken, perhaps praying, or even calling for help again. Repenting, regretting, making apologies no one will hear. His mouth works, and he swallows thickly.
He supposes it doesn't really matter.
* * *
The good thing about dying, he thinks with a smirk, is the people that knew him will reconstruct his last moments in their own heads, and in those last few moments, they'll like to think he really was capable of those things. What's better, he thinks penitently, is he won't be around to prove them wrong.
He thinks he should be able to find some comfort in that.
* * *
He's so cold now.
His heart flutters and he remembers, and it hurts so badly.
* * *
The streets are strangely silent and the sky is grey (or maybe his vision is beginning to fail); it hasn't begun to snow yet, but if he concentrates hard enough, his glassy eyes clear for just a second, and he can see his frosty breath in the air before heavy lids come crashing down again.
The world has not stopped, time has not slowed--the world will not notice his absence.
He doesn't think about it.
It's easier this way--it always has been.
* * *
He thinks of his mother, and feels a pang of regret when he can't remember what color her eyes are, or the last time he saw her. The last conversation they had was about laundry soap, he thinks. He can't remember. He wishes he would have told her he loved her more. He hopes she knows.
He can feel himself slipping away again and wonders how many more times he'll be able to wake up before it's time. All at once things turn black, but his eyes are still wide open and his mind races, his heart pounds, and his leg, it doesn't--
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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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