Archive of Our Own

Not a single resource left unscavenged, not a single tool left unutilized, nor one stone left unturned.

There was nothing more to be done.

House stirred, eyelids crusty upon opening.

You did everything you could.

His pulse throbbed behind his ear.

It wasn't your fault.

The fourth day in the hospital was really when things started to come together – whether the things actually fit, or if a toddler with sticky hands forced the puzzle piece to fit.

The only reason one person would console another with that platitude is if they felt there was fault to be had.

House propped himself up a little, arms weak and wobbly from lack of use.

Regardless of faith, every living soul with a brain that could reason had their own perspective on the universe—whether God, whomever, or whatever made the universe or was a part of it—the faithful and the faithless saw the life and death in one of four ways.

The universe leads, humanity only follows: it is what it is. The universe is an active participant, the universe is unfeeling. Many in the universe would meet their demise that day, some were going to die on that bus no matter what; the universe just happened to grip the ivory pawn ingrained with Amber's DNA at the throat and sacrifice that cosmic game of chess.

The universe is a creation of love and humanity is its byproduct: we exist as one, multi-faceted cohesive entity that ebbs and flows within itself. The universe is an active participant, the universe is kind. Healers are meant to find those in need of healing, coincidences are one in the same with miracles, The Big Bang and other mumbo jumbo—it was Amber's time, and she now rests in a better place.

The universe simply is as we are: the universe gives and takes, just as humans enact that same process. The universe is a passive observer, the universe is kind. Everything happens for a reason, and sometimes that reason is nothing at all; you can't always get what you want, like the wise philosopher Mick Jagger has said, but if you try sometime, you get what you need.

The universe doesn't care about its inhabitants, but they care about it and each other: either you or me will leech off each other until one of us gets full on enough blood to tide us over until our next fix. The universe is a passive observer, the universe is unfeeling … maybe not so much passive, but more parasitic? Spiteful, even? No, it doesn't care. “It” is irrelevant because with the universe, there is no “self.”

House blinked, feeling lethargic. Brain swelling made sense because what the hell kind of circles was he talking himself through?

Whomever said it wasn't his fault was an idiot and an ass. Cuddy or Cameron, probably.

What House didn't recall at the time was what he uttered the moment he first woke up with Cuddy by his side – like the weak plea of a post-wisdom teeth removal patient that deliriously whispers “I miss my teeth” – a faint I killed her.

The one part he could recall was the tortured look on his friend's tear-streaked, blotchy face before he turned to leave the hospital room—the look that told him Amber had died.

Amber had died senselessly – and though her death was senseless, it was not blameless – she died as a result of something, of someone.

It took House a while to regain his bearings. By the time the main swelling in his prefrontal cortex decreased and he started retaining more recent memories, it had been eight days since Amber passed. She was buried in the ground already.

House wasn't even conscious – or anywhere close to approaching it – when Amber spent her last hours alive, awakened from the medically induced coma just to be tortured with her impending doom. If House could have seen her, he'd finally know what it would look like to die with the most dignity possible; but instead, he was left to contemplate the anger she must have had towards him, unaware that was far from the truth.

Wilson had every right to hate him. House shouldn't be bothered by that. He was.

House was given – or had stolen – the chance to live another day, depending on the universe's good graces or lack thereof. He wasn't sure what to do with it. He wasn't sure he wanted it.

He got to live, Amber got to die. She should be alive, he should be dead.

She made Wilson happy, he made Wilson miserable.

Headaches came easy, never lonely, always accompanied by hot white-capped waves of nausea that left House in a position where bedpans and tins were unavoidable during his recovery.

Brain function: improving, swelling around hippocampus entirely decreased: patient continues to strengthen forming declaritive memories.

Even so, House felt off.

He felt off without Wilson.

How you feel doesn't matter.

If the bus wasn't at fault, it was the garbage truck – that part was simple. Once you dig your nails in deep, scratching each layer of skin and feeling around for fault, it got more complicated.

If House hadn't been nearly day-drinking until he was plastered, he wouldn't have had gotten his keys taken by the bartender.

If Wilson wasn't on call, Amber wouldn't have picked up the phone. Then it could have been Wilson in Amber's coffin.

If Amber hadn't gotten sick with the flu, if she hadn't taken the flu pills, she wouldn't have amantadine toxicity. But what if the price of no pills handed the dice to the universe to randonly role and send that metal pole through her throat.

If House hadn't spent so much time figuring out the damn bus driver, maybe he would have realized Amber was at risk earlier on – maybe he could have done something, found something quicker.

If House had just harassed the bartender into giving him back his keys, if he had whacked the man's wrist with his cane, maybe House would have died in a wreck on his motorcycle.

Amber's death wasn't blameless, he knew that.

It didn't matter that House induced a heart attack with physostigmine, it didn't matter that that the Deep Brain Stimulation triggered a complex partial seizure and widened the linear fracture in his skull.

Or, it may not be as dark as all that—if Amber hadn't picked up the phone, Wilson likely would have. If there was a chance of disaster, there was just as much of a chance of nothing. Wilson could have picked up, but gotten a flat tire on the way to get House – House would have had to wait until Wilson got there, then he never would have gotten on the bus that crashed. They could have gone home in one piece, then got called in to the hospital to assist in the ER with the would-be bus crash victims.

Everything was random.

The universe is a passive observer.

Everything was senseless.

The universe is unfeeling.

Heaven, Hell, karmatic punishment, purgatory ... all weaponized to keep people in line, to coax sheep in their pen.

But just because there is no ultimate consequence, some cosmic judgement, that does not mean things that are senseless are blameless. You already said that.

House was dizzy.

I said nothing, I'm thinking.

You're an idiot.

House's vision was coming back into focus, staring at the thin hospital sheets draped over him.

It's your fault and you know it.

No one was with him at the moment, thankfully, because any time he had his damn eyes open they were showing him cards and testing his cognitive ability.

House was grateful he was alone.

It's what you deserve.

Even so, House found himself calling out weakly: "Nurse?" His vocal chords dragging against each other from lack of use like a tired, muddy camper shuffling over gravel.

He could hear the monitors beeping: his heartrate was rising.

House hit the button, tremors running through him.

Nurse Yvette came in, looking weary – probably mentally prepping herself to get insulted for something that was out of her control – she came over, eyeing vitals. "Yes, Dr. House?"

"Water," pleading. It was embarrassing. "Ice chips," he added, an afterthought.

She softened. "Of course, I'll get you some more."

The nurses were being nice to him. He hated it. Had they forgotten the snide remarks he made last week? Had the countless HR complaints over the years gone amiss?

As she was walking out the door, another nurse, Brenda, came in – supervisory, he guessed – since the shit House was hooked up to was beeping frustratingly. Or was her name Brandi?

"Um-" House started to say, unsure of what he was going to ask or demand, before his skin flushed and he lurched.

Nurse Brenda/Brandi quickly stepped in, hand on House's back to keep him upright and aimed when spitting up a thin stream of bile.

He coughed, eyes watering.

House felt weak, which he despised, it was uncomfortable to be out of control like this. If he was drunk or too high, he could at least predict the eventual outcome of what would happen if things went awry, but a more-than-moderate concussion left him confused and at a loss.

Nurse Yvette returned with a cup of water and an even bigger cup of ice chips, while the one by his side instructed him to slow his breathing.

He wasn't full-on hyperventilating, but his breath was quicker and a little uneven. House nodded instinctively, bringing about another round of dizziness.

I want my mom, the thought caught him off guard.

"We'll have someone make a call." What?

Did he say that out loud?

"No, I'll just-" House rasped. "I'll do-"

House cut himself short, feeling his mouth grow warm, saliva beginning to pool before dribbling down his chin.

Cameron had entered the room at some point, her pathetic-man-in-need-of-saving radar must have started whirring to life, because she had taken the place of Nurse Brenda/Brandi. House fisted the bedsheet as another round of wet retching wiped him out.

"You're okay," Cameron said, her voice soft, rubbing his back like it was nothing.

House shuddered under her touch, his skin hot and clammy as he spit mostly foam into the pan. He started leaning against her a little bit.

He half-heard Cameron talking with one of the nurses – they were pushing 8 mg of Ondansetron, thank GOD.

"Just keep breathing," Cameron coaxed.

"I-" House started to say he was breathing, but his mouth was bitter and parched, his breaths caught on the inhale. Maybe he was hyperventilating.

Cameron looked at him in a way that made House want to crawl out of his skin and leave his bones behind to poison rather than fertilize the soil.

"Go," House choked out. He didn't want anyone to see this. Not anyone that mattered. "Please."

"No." Cameron was unfazed, eyeing his vitals. "Do you want something for the anxiety?"

"I'm not anxious," House said, still leaning over the bed pan as the anti-nausea kicked in. He considered for a moment. "Xanax."

"Hydroxyzine," Cameron borderline chided, "we'll go from there."

Her hands left his back and he felt cold, but he knew that wasn't the reason for the trembling. She prepped the meds for his IV and House just stared blankly ahead.

His teeth chattered the moment he unclenched his jaw.

"I'm cold," Amber had said to him. House's breath hitched, his throat twinged with the emotion.

"You're free to go about your duties," House said hoarsely, watching Cameron prepare his IV. Please leave. He felt like he was about to fall apart, his stomach fluttering with nerves, not justifiable by getting sick, as bile was no longer actively feeling like it was burning a hole in his esophagus. "That means you can go now," House emphasized.

"Not a chance," Cameron said, injecting the meds. She wiped a cool cloth on his forehead, then rested it on the back of his sweaty neck. It made him think of Wilson's tender touch after the infarction. God, he's going to cry.

"Chase not putting out at home?" House's eyes were watering, childish crocodile tears welling up and threatening to spill over.

"Oh, he's putting out," Cameron said quiet and mischevious.

"Huh," House scoffed, the tears rolling down his cheeks now, breath stuttering. "I thought his pretty ass was waiting until marriage."

"He was." Cameron dabbed House's tears without acknowledging them. "He just couldn't keep his hands to himself once he met me."

"You, on the other hand, couldn't help but- go back to your roots," House took in a wavering breath, tremors wracking his body from nerves and the aftermath of adrenaline.

House let out a choked sound, part-sob wrought from the heart of grief, part-laugh from the depth of embarrassment. Cameron's hand stilled, just resting on his back as he genuinely started to cry outright.

"It's okay," she soothed.

House wanted to tell her to shut up, but the only sounds that were escaping him was snot-clogged coughs and humiliating sounds that were comparable to whimpers.

"You're going to be okay." Her voice was strained, which made House glad he wasn't looking at her.

He kept his face covered, shielding himself from her with the last strain of dignity he had, muffling his cries.

After a couple of moments, the medicine started to loosen the knot in his chest.

"Care to elaborate on what my roots are?" Cameron methodically continued to rub his back in slow circles, noting the pressure was keeping him relatively grounded until the Hydroxyzine fully kicked in.

"What?" House asked, tired.

"People don't change, yada yada. You said I'd gone back to my roots. What did you-"

"Just had to get to the nearest-" House cut her off, taking in a wavering breath, "-damaged goods store, find the most spoiled and bruised fruit, and wrap it up in a gauze grocery bag?"

"Did you just call yourself a fruit?" A twinge of a smile, trying to pull her lips up from the permanent frown as of late.

"I was going to say vegetable, but that hits a little too close to home."

"And fruit doesn't?"

"Gotta get your seeds off somehow." House didn't know what he was saying; his muscles began to feel more lax. "Your fave teen idol knew the lay of the land. You get the best of both worlds."

"I'm a little old for Hannah Montana," she snorted, fluffing House's pillows.

"Barely." House was returning to his usual snotty self. "Thanks, Nurse Cameron."

"You and Doctor Hadley should have a gab sesh about that. I'm sure she would have some insight on your newfound self-discoveries."

Who? "Newfound is a bold assumption," House said, feeling the effect of the Hydroxyzine course through him.

"Feeling a bit better?" Cameron asked. "Shaking decreased, sarcasm increased."

House knew not to nod, so he just blinked slowly, the medicine starting to make him drowsy.

"Don't utter a word of this to anyone," House droned, his muscles feeling a bit lax, "or I'll kill you in your sleep."

"You haven't regained enough strength to be able to get back smothering people yet." Cameron was light and coy about it, not acknowledging the mini mental breakdown that just wiped him out. "Me, on the other hand, I am in the perfect position to do so. So, watch it."

At some point Cameron eased him down against the bed.

If Cameron wouldn't alert the tabloids that House weeped like a child in her arms – which she likely would, that gossip-fueled bitch – the nurses would.

He saw Taub, Kutner, and Foreman discussing something outside his room. Probably not related to him, but he couldn't help but wonder. Maybe they came to watch the show, he thought while he watched Cameron walk up to them after leaving his room.

Later, Cuddy's eyes bore into House, pale blue and pitying, every time she entered the room. Cameron definitely told her about his pathetic meltdown.

House wondered what she knew; maybe she was attuned to some knowledge that House didn't currently have access to. Maybe Wilson had informed her that he would never be speaking to House again.

"This is John," his father answered.

No tone, no sass: "I called Mom," House said simply.

"And I picked up. She's in the kitchen," John House responded quickly. "Will you allow me to accept the message on her behalf, or are you going to throw a hissy fit?"

"How like you to push off all the chores involving real elbow grease onto a woman," House remarked, unable to come up with anything clever. "I want to talk to her."

Thirteen slowed her movements, dragging out what her and a nurse had been doing long enough to overhear.

Following them, Chase had just come in the room, who would no doubt tell Cameron about this hot goss ... him calling his parents to cry because he skinned his knee and got a booboo (also known as: cracking his skull and losing a friend). Could he call April his friend? Previous employee, friend by fuckbuddy (girlfriend) of friend proxy?

There was a grunt and some shuffling on the other line, his father going in search of his mother, and House sat there with his phone pressed against his ear.

Chase was surely just lingering to catch the rest of the convo ... there was no need for the "required" company Cuddy was enforcing if House was on a phone call. That's company enough.

He didn't need to tend to House's bedsheets, notate anything on his charts, or jog his memory. Chase and Thirteen were no more than flies on the wall.

"Thank you," quietly, in the background, then: "Hello? Your father just handed me the phone," Blythe spoke on the other end, voice sounding cheery. "How are you, dear?"

"Hi, Mom." House looked ahead blankly.

"Hi, Greg," she said again, softer. "What have you been up to? Any interesting cases? I dont think I've talked with you since one of those new folks you'd hired lit someone on fire. Anymore unintentional arson or manslaughter, lately?"

Silence.

"Did I lose you, hon?"

"Not exactly," House breathed, drawing his free hand to his face, the IV traveling and dangling with it.

"What's going on?" She had a slight edge to her voice. "Or should I be asking what did you do?"

"Do you think you could- would you be willing to, um..." House let out a shaky breath, "could you come up to Princeton?" His voice broke.

"Oh, sweetheart," like honey, she oozed sympathy in a way that House despised purely because it left him aching for more. "What's happened?"

"There was an accident," House's voice was clipped, and he could feel Chase's deer-versus-semi stare on him. "I was just wondering..." Please come.

"Christ, I told you. That damn motorcycle!" He could hear her get choked up over the line. "Were you wearing a helmet?"

"No, I-"

"Gregory!"

"No! Jesus- just ... listen, I wasn't behind the wheel or the handlebars. Public transport," House said, feeling tired of the conversation already. "I was on a bus."

House could hear the overlap of his parents' voices, but couldn't decipher what was said.

Thirteen left the room with the nurse that had accompanied her, their footsteps measured and silent. He saw the glance she shot at Chase before leaving.

"Your father and I can be there in the next 24 hours. Is James with you?"

House winced. If he was, I wouldn't be calling you. "I don't want Dad to come."

"Honey, please. He's your father, he loves you-"

He couldn't deal with the prospect of his father's being there when he was feeling so vulnerable. He felt vulnerable around the man already.

House shut the conversation down quickly, downplayed the severity of the accident and pushed it off as emotional weakness. He wouldn't burden her with this.

It was a fight, the last thing House wanted, which ended with him hanging up abruptly. He was breathing a bit heavier—all he wanted was his mother, was that so fucking hard to ask for?

Chase didn't acknowledge the conversation he overheard, nor the glassy look in House's eyes.

House flipped the phone shut and dropped it on the bedside table, taking in a measured breath.

"Can I get-" Chase started, looking at him intently.

"Out."

"I was going to ask if I could get you anything," Chase defended, making sure House knew he didn't care about whatever drama unfolded—even though he absolutely did.

"I'm aware," House's voice was strained, "and I said get out."

The request was crystal as can be, but Chase lingered uncomfortably for a moment before exiting—the door sliding shut after him, leaving House in an almost suffocating stillness.

House grabbed the ever-replenishing cup of ice chips, only a third of the way gone and starting to glisten as they melted, and tipped it back. Rather than cheeking two of the ice chips and letting one melt on his tongue, he shut his jaw down on them tight just to feel the ache in his teeth and the frosty burn of the cold.

He shivered—

—then did it again.

Accompanied by Kutner and Taub, Foreman did more cards and word association until House insulted him relentlessly until he was just short of a slur.

Finally, giving in, Foreman put down the cards and went through the checklist: "Any previously mentioned neurological symptoms worsening? Headaches?"

"You're here. So, yes."

"Dizziness? Vertigo?" Foreman continued, not bothering to indulge him. "Improving?"

"Yes," House said, realizing how tired he was and just deciding to get the routine check over with.

"How about the nausea?"

"Yes."

Kutner was scribbling his answers down on the clipboard and Taub was adjusting the IV while Foreman referenced House's chart.

"Dr. Chase noted heart palpitations and tremors when getting up for routine walks," Kutner said, pen hovering. "Heart rhythm has been consistently steady. Is it possible excess physical exertion arose due to the recent cardiac episode, or are there additional symptoms you haven't informed us of?"

Kutner's overtly methodical tone, keeping to business, left House uneasy. Was he angry with him?

"Have you considered the fact that I'm a cripple who was almost crushed in a bus crash?" House snipped. "That could be a factor in an overreactive parasympathetic system."

"Yes," Kutner said, not really indulging him. He looked to Foreman for direction.

"In addition to the episodes that have taken place during physical therapy, have you experienced any muscle weakness or spasms, numbness or tingling?"

House muttered that he hadn't under his breath, already tired of the conversation.

"Coordination or balance issues?" Taub asked, backing up to stand by Kutner now that he had finished tinkering with House's meds, tubes, and wires that were pinching and tickling him at all angles.

"First week, yes. Falls under vertigo, do you read?" House blinked at Taub. "Not anymore."

"Cognitive function, like concentration and memory recollection..." Taub began, body sagging with what looked like exhaustion. "Improving, static, new, or worsening?"

"Improving. I unfortunately remember all of your faces." House shuddered dramatically. "And names, too. Taub, ugh, have you ever thought about the correlation between a cat coughing up a hairball and the way your last name sounds coming out of someone's mouth?"

Taub's jaw hung, just a little, his lips making a popping sound as a gaped at him.

Before Taub could even bother to come up with something twice as hateful to say back, Foreman continued: "Any mood disturbances-"

"Yeah, that one," House blurted out, obnoxious with intention. "I think it's environmental."

"Besides agitation and anxiety," Kutner started – prompting House to groan, He wasn't anxious at all, he was fine, knowing full well they had access to the charts that showed he had been administered Hydroxyzine three times since he was admitted.

"Can we go back to cognitive function?" House ignored Kutner, looking to Taub. "Because I'm confused, particularly as to why you're still here."

"If you're confused, we can accommodate that," Foreman said bluntly, eyes boring into him. "If you need additional clarification regarding a question, please feel free to ask and we'll keep it simple."

No dancing around, Foreman was tired of his bullshit.

"I'm getting tired," House dramaticized a yawn, but he truthfully was.

"Are you depressed?" Kutner said steadily, not looking up from the chart. Enough with the mood disturbances section, haven't we had enough?

"No, are you? Feel free to share with the class if you are. There's resources available at your fingertips," House said snottily. "You are not alone."

"House." Foreman's eyebrows were pinched.

"What the hell do you want me to say? I'm overjoyed? I'm so, so pleased with the fact I just killed my best friend's girlfriend? Honestly, this is the happiest I've ever been, now that I have no competition to plow that furrow myself." House felt his face grow hot with frustration, his heartrate rising. "No, I'm not depressed, but I'm not fucking happy."

Kutner was not moved by the outburst, he just gingerly handed House the cup of water that was slightly out of reach. "You didn't kill her."

House was a split second from smacking it out of his hands, imagining the cold water dotting his stupid fucking lab coat. Yes, House took in a sharp breath, I did.

"I didn't save her." House took the water, aggravated to see his hands were trembling. "Are we almost done here?"

"Any suicidal thoughts?" Kutner said evenly.

Taub's eyes flickered to Kutner and Foreman zoned in on House.

House opened his mouth to say something, but he wasn't sure what would or wouldn't be held against him. "I've been a disabled drug addict with a death wish for nearly a decade, nothing's changed," he said lightly, jovial almost, unsure of how that would land with the audience.

"Are you saying you're suicidal?" Foreman asked carefully, expression unchanging.

"Not anymore than usual," House plays it up with a scoff. Then, more genuinely, "Come on. I'm fine, I'm not gonna throw myself off the roof, relax. I'm just-" House paused, unsure of himself. He discarded the thought. "You know, I may up the ante from passive to active if you keep bothering me."

They finally surrendered: Kutner gave him a meek smile, no longer in Mr. Professional Doctor-mode, Foreman jotted down a couple things, and Taub shook his head—his shoulders still remained hiked up by his ears.

After thirty minutes of what felt like interrogating, the lackeys wrapped up and left him to his own devices.

House sat in his bed, staring at the wall.

If he were to go out anytime soon, it would be from his own stupidity—not intentional—dosing a little too close to the dark star or doing something that his team would label as reckless.

If he were to give up, well...

House thought for a minute, his body stilling.

He would make sure he couldn't be saved.

Do enough lines to get as high as the building he'd jump off of, one tall enough to make sure he was nothing but pink mist, like what was left behind of the jumpers from 9/11.

A gun wouldn't suffice. Too quick, and he didn't deserve quick even if he wanted it.

Something rusty and seraded.

A slow, jagged drag – something that would hurt – not the quick and sharp semi-deep cuts that sometimes cleared his mind.

House shivered.

You're an idiot.

Living in misery sucks marginally less than dying in it, he knew that, but he deserved it.

In the state he was now, if he was released from the hospital, he probably would do something rash.

He thought of calling his mom again, just to hear her talk about something stupid.

But it wouldn't be a normal conversation because she knew about the accident. She didn't know know, but she knew enough to where she wouldn't let it slide and that would be all their conversation would be about.

He didn't deserve the comfort.

House shook his head at himself, lightly enough to not rattle him.

He didn't deserve anything.

A day after two weeks, House was released from the hospital – weaned off morphine and back onto his higher-than-usual Vicodin regiment – and within less than a 24-hour period, he was back.

By his own accord, no one was forcing him to be there.

He lingered in the ER until Cameron told him he should go home and rest, to which he promptly ignored until she gave in—tired of him limping around after her like some lame, brutalized circus bear, stuck walking circles of where the confines of its cage used to be.

"There is nothing I can do for you here." Cameron ushered him into an empty room with a cot.

"As she says while doing things..." House narrated.

"Neglecting sleep and anything under the sun that is categorized as well-being will not help you whatsoever." She jostled the stethoscope to rest comfortably around her neck, resting the files stacked in manila against her hip. "You were healthy enough to be released from the hospital, but if you plan to continue this, you will end up right back here."

"I am right here," House said, dull, gesturing loosely to the room.

"If you can't stand a Wilson-less apartment, I can't help you with that." Cameron pretended not to see the wince before House forced an eye roll. "If you won't settle for time off, you should take up Cuddy's referral to see a therapist."

"I'm all caught up on my physical therapy." House sat on the cot and crossed his legs, offering a faux sweet pleading look while crossing his legs. "Do I get a sticker or a sucker this time."

"If you're struggling, that's understandable. You'd be out of your mind if you weren't affected by this in the slightest. Talk to someone."

"I'm actually tired of talking to someones-"

"House." Cameron looked like she could've stamped her foot out of frustration.

"Oh, please. Every therapist I've ever seen has either barred me from their entire practice or left the field completely."

"You've seen a therapist?" Cameron wasn't taking the bait.

"Only with my eyes closed."

"Get some rest," Cameron said, her voice revealing how worn she was. "I don't have time for this."

She shut the door behind her, leaving House in the stillness of the clinic room next to the ER trauma unit.

The cool, quiet of the room – suffocated and swaddled by layers of latex and plastic containers, by swabs and cotton, and draped in crinkling paper sheets – was so much more comforting than the empty feeling the cushiness of his couch gave him, the lack of security of his blankets.

The hospital at least felt like it always did: unforgiving.

His apartment no longer felt like a safe haven, so this was all House had.

House was glad Cameron left, he didn't want her here ... not really.

But the sound of footsteps nearby, muffled voices, and the steady midnight movement of the hospital made him feel like he wasn't completely isolated.

House would never ask for the warmth of an embrace – for one, he didn't deserve it – but he would accept the distant existence of others, knowing someone was near in case he needed something.

He didn't deserve comfort, for he was to blame for all of this, but he needed it.