Hello everyone!

Thank you so much for your reviews, and for adding the story to your favourites and/or following it! I means a huge deal to me :) here is the second and final part. I've added some musical recommendations - you can find them all on YouTube.

Sadly I still do not own the show, nor the dialogues and lyrics I've included.


Part Two


Un Amico – Ennio Morricone

A few minutes later, House was staring at his tools wordlessly. He had removed his leather jacket and swallowed a few ibuprofen pills. The more time went by, the more he was convinced of the necessity of the surgery, and the less he felt capable of accomplishing it.

"House, talk to me."

What was he going to tell her? That he could not put her out because it would depress her respiration too much? She already knew it. The only thing he could give her was local anaesthetics. Which would not be enough. At all.

She took his blue-gloved hand in her own and squeezed it. It had to be done. He had to save her life. Finding a little courage in her touch, House took out a scalpel as well as a piece of gauze from the kit, which he applied just below her knee, as close to the block of rubble as possible, in order to save as much tissue as he could. Cuddy bit her lip so as to muffle her scream of pain while the piece of steel cut through her flesh and around her bone, blood dripping from the wound. On one hand, House was relieved not to hear her because otherwise he would never be able to saw her bones, but on the other hand, he did not want her to inflict on herself more torment than the surgery would cause her. House sliced through her skin and muscles, the sight of her bare bones and her blood on his hands making him slightly dizzy. He grabbed his electrical saw but didn't dare turn it on. He thought of what Cuddy was going to endure. Bone pain was the worst there was. It would be merciless. Even if he hurried as much as possible, it would last too long.

"Do it."

She was breathless and her voice trailed off. He did not glance at her, fearing to see her pain distorting her features. He switched his saw on, and took a deep breath before he began to cut off the bare ivory, so that he'd save her. So that she'd live.

Cuddy did not hold back her screams. It was not pain, it was worse. It felt as though each single one of her cells were revolting. As though she were breaking away from a carcass that was desperately gripping at her. She felt it everywhere in her body and there was no escape. House was focusing on his task, striving not to let himself be distracted. He had to finish this, as quickly as possible, even though the almost inhuman screams that echoed across the cavity were caused by his own hands. Focus, just fucking focus!

At last, it was over.

He turned the tool off. Calmly put it down. Did not dare glance at the bloody ivory. Preferred not to hear Cuddy's moans. Detached himself from the scene.

A few EMTs picked her up. They placed her trembling body on a gurney, before taking her out of the cell.

She had pulled through it.

House stared at the pool of fresh blood in front of him and angrily threw his pair of gloves away. He thanked the first god that crossed his mind – it happened to be Zeus – and followed the paramedics, forgetting his cane, before hopping into the ambulance and sitting beside Cuddy; beside her head so that he would not be forced to see her stump, although it was wrapped in fabric to avoid her bleeding out before they admitted her into the ER. An attendant, whom House had not met yet but who seemed rather competent, settled across from him.

He took Cuddy's hand, who smiled behind her oxygen mask even though she was exhausted. He managed to reciprocate it a little. He thought of what was ahead of them, and an unusual and unexpected feeling of joy surged through him. Maybe that he was naïve and their couple wouldn't last, but he wanted to try. He wanted to take care of her. He'd clean her wound in the OR, and look after her during her physical therapy. And after that, they'd live.

She gazed into his eyes, and she felt at peace. It was over, and she was alive.

His phone rang, interrupting the contemplation of his future.

"What?"

"He's fallen into a coma," Foreman answered in a much less aggressive tone. "LP was clean, but..."

"What are his vitals?"

"Excuse me, officer," he heard Taub say.

"What do you mean, 'officer'? How long has there been a cop there?"

"I don't know, ten minutes. He was being questioned when he fell into the coma."

"Was anything else making him nervous or worried before his other symptoms?"

"He was claustrophobic right before the bleed and before the fever we told him that he probably did fall asleep."

"Was his BP spiking?"

Cuddy loved witnessing his differentials. It was almost an art. Amazingly, she could read his passion for medicine and the puzzles in his features. But what she liked the most, was the little senseless patterns he'd draw unconsciously on her hand while he was lost in his thoughts.

"But that didn't cause his first symptom."

"Yeah, it did. All the caffeine. We thought the problem was in his toilet – by that, of course, I mean his head. Which distracted us from the fact that it could have been just a clog in his sewer pipe, and by that, of course, I mean his spinal cord. And blah, blah, blah, blah. You get the idea."

"An arachnoid cyst on his lower spine," Chase concluded. "That's why we missed it. He's been sitting ten hours a day. Spiked his spinal fluid pressure."

"Run a CT –"

Her fingers tightened their grip on his own. The monitor was screaming for her as her heart beat and beat faster and she was struggling to breathe.

"BP's seventy-two over forty-two," the paramedic informed him.

He immediately diagnosed a circulatory shock. House hung up, threw his phone away somewhere, and grabbed a stethoscope, listening carefully to her chest. "Breath sounds bilaterally, it's not another pneumothorax." He felt her neck as he mentally eliminated causes. "Neck veins flat. There's no tamponade." He had an idea. "It's a clot in her lung. IV streptokinase," he demanded. A pulmonary embolism fitted with her symptoms. It was only a small complication, which would be solved quickly. His colleague gave him a syringe. House injected the protein into the catheter that was nestled into her tibia. His action was going to aggravate the haemorrhage, but he would take care of it afterwards. The priority was to dissolve the blood clot stuck in her pulmonary artery and allow her to breathe normally.

House frowned when that did not happen. Her blood pressure remained low and she was still panting desperately. It was an embolism, he knew it was, but why wasn't it working?

Cuddy knew. She wanted to tell him he was wrong. She knew she was not going to make it to the hospital, and she wanted to spend the last few seconds of her life with him, not watching him bustle around.

House's thoughts rushed through his head at the speed of light. If she were still wheezing, then it was not a blood clot. If it were not a blood clot, what could it be?

Fat embolism.

There was no solution. He couldn't do anything, except for letting her die as her bone marrow spread into her blood flow and poisoned her. He could give her as many drugs and as much oxygen as he wanted, nothing could stop her marrow from obstructing her blood vessels and ultimately suffocating her.

He squeezed her hand, at a loss for words. What could he tell her? Not to be scared? Of course she was scared, she was dying! He had to tell her something. He could not let her leave just like that.

Her loud pants eventually came to a stop. She stared into his eyes, and he looked so heartbroken and terrified that she wished she could tell him not to be afraid. She poured all her love for him into her gaze and gave in. House saw her close her resigned and exhausted eyes as she weakly caressed his hand with her fingertips one last time.

His own heart skipped a beat when the monitor emitted a continuous beep. He had hoped until the last second, but it had happened for real.

She had died because of him.

Foreman ran through the ER and to the ambulance waiting area. He had been told about the arrival of a recently leg-amputated patient. They had to take her to the OR as fast as possible. The surgeon was already waiting. They did not want that patient to bleed out in a waiting room before they could repair the wound.

The neurologist opened the doors of the vehicle.

What he had not been told about, was that the patient had died en route.

And that her name was Lisa Cuddy.


"We're going to have to take her, House."

Foreman's calm voice made him jump. He had stayed in the ambulance alone with her for more than fifteen minutes, just staring at her pale face. The lights were off, a bereaved darkness surrounding him.

"Just a few more minutes," he demanded weakly.

The neurologist walked away. House mentally thanked him; he needed to be alone with her. He caressed Cuddy's cold forehead and rested his lips there, thinking that maybe he could warm it up and she'd awake. But it did not work that way. It was over.

He was incapable of saying anything. It was as though he had died with her. And he still could not believe it. She had died in front of him and he still managed to think that she was only asleep. She was going to regain her strength, because it had been a very rough day, and when she was ready, she would wake up. He kissed her dusty cheek one last time, his lips leaving a pale mark on her skin.

Foreman reappeared. House nodded feebly at him and, a few seconds later, two orderlies wheeled her to the morgue, far away from him. He watched her leave without a word.

The booth on which he was sitting sank to his right. Foreman gave him his phone back. House did not react, so he buried it in the pocket of his leather jacket.

"I'll call her family," he said, lifting a huge weight off his boss' shoulders.

Foreman did not know if he could touch House to comfort him. He usually was not fond of physical contact, and now that he had lost Cuddy... He tried laying a compassionate hand on his shoulder. No reaction.

"There's no way to prevent a fat embolism. Even if you'd done this in an OR, you couldn't have saved her."

He certainly did not want to listen to this. He had tried to save his patient and he had fucked up and it was Cuddy. He was so angry at himself that he wanted to punch a wall, and yet so devastated and annihilated that he could not find the strength or willpower to move. House rose suddenly and nearly collapsed, his thigh barely supporting him. However, he found a way to get off the ambulance, the neurologist following him. He limped through the ER, knowing that a swarm of pitiful gazes were focused on him. He did not need it. He did not need to be pitied because he had cut off her leg and watched her die from his actions. The scraping noise of the rubber joints of the front doors sounded like a relief.

"You can't blame yourself for her death. This wasn't your fault."

"That's the point!" he yelled in the middle of the empty lobby, his words echoing gravely. "I did everything right, she died anyway."

He gripped the edge of the counter, on the verge of collapsing. His leg hurt like hell. She died anyway.

"You shouldn't be alone right now."

Foreman walked to him. House stood up distrustfully.

"I'm gonna give you a task as an employee," he snapped. "Get out of my way."

The neurologist hesitated. He could not leave him alone, although his boss seemed quite determined. He stood aside and let the diagnostician limp away.

He ended up paying for the cab ride, having considered it at length; it was not a good idea to send House home on his own, but it was still better than letting him limp to his building, especially without his cane. Furthermore, it was not safe for a cripple to hobble down the streets in the middle of the night, notably in his current state. He was a wreck.

House opened his front door, forgot to lock it, forgot he had forgotten to lock it. He headed straight to the bathroom, as though on auto-pilot. He had no clue what he wanted at that moment, or what he was feeling, he only had one need – surprisingly enough, he was still capable of feeling a need for something.

He looked at his reflection in the mirror, his hand touching his wounded shoulder. His shirt was irreparably stained with his blood. That was okay, he owned many other shirts.

He glanced up. Just seeing himself made him want to throw up. He was a monster, a murderer. He had inflicted the worst pain possible to Cuddy, and it had not even helped to save her. He had killed Cuddy.

She had a daughter, and they were just starting to give themselves a chance, and it was his own fault that he would never, ever, see her, touch her, talk to her again.

He saw her blood and her bones and she was screaming and her eyelids dropped.

Anger boiling in his veins, he furiously grabbed the mirror and smashed it carelessly into the tub, letting it break into smithereens.

Before him was the devil's den.

Two bottles of Vicodin, hidden in a hole dug into the wall. With a trembling hand, he took out the little orange tubes. He had missed the familiar and comforting sound of pills clinking. He sat on the floor, leaning his aching back against the bathtub. He had gotten clean for Cuddy, and he was getting back on drugs for her. Perhaps, if he were lucky, he'd hallucinate her again. With no hesitation, he uncapped one of the bottles. The gesture felt familiar, even after all this time. A white pill fell into his palm. He swallowed it and closed his eyes, allowing the drug to flow through his system. Maybe he needed Cuddy more than he needed drugs. He was sinking into cotton, allowing himself to be carried away by the poisoning wave. He felt as though he was out of his body, as though this damaged wreck weren't his anymore, and all he had left was his healing mind. He had missed the sensation, and it was painfully pleasant.

A singing voice tore him from his reverie.

"And I've got Vicodin, do you wanna come over? I know it's a long drive from Malibu..."

House knew this voice too well. Too bad, it was not the one he wanted to hear. He opened his eyes and his glance met a pair of pale, bare knees, before finding the two ends of a red scarf, which was wrapped around Amber's neck.

"I've got a pocket full of pills and not one lover. You don't seem very happy to see me," she observed with a sad pout. She sat across from him, crossed her legs and leaned against the wall. "Back on the pills? I thought you'd stay clean for at least a year. You're disappointing me."

"I don't want to see you," he growled in a low voice. "Fuck off."

"I'm in your head. I'm you. I can't leave," she sniggered. "Unless you behead yourself but that's another story."

"You're nothing more than a hallucination. You're my sick brain's puke," he spat. "I'm not interested."

"Am I blushing? If you're back on drugs, then something serious happened. Does it have something to do with Wilson?"

"Like I'm gonna tell you..." There, now he was talking to a hallucination, and he could not even help it. If that wasn't rock bottom...

"Okay, not Wilson then. But someone you care about," she thought aloud. "The list is short. Is it Cuddy?... I'm getting close, aren't I?"

If he could have, he would have strangled her; but she was already dead. So he contented himself with glaring at her.

"Definitely getting close," she laughed.

House tried to stand up. He was exhausted. Surely, he would be able to ignore her and sleep. He wasted his breath. His muscles promptly refused to support him and his stomach threatened to betray him. He felt tension behind his eyeballs and thought that his eyes were probably bloodshot.

"Come on, tell me!" she continued, as excited as a kid just about to unwrap a big present. "What have you done again?"

"Don't wanna talk."

"You can tell me anything," she insisted. "It's not like I'm going to tell anybody else since I can't leave your head."

"Last I checked, you weren't a shrink."

"Wilson tells me about his day every night, believe it's the best training I could wish for," she replied. "Let me help you!"

"You're of no help. You screw with my diagnoses, you want to kill everybody. Last time, you wanted to kill Chase!"

"No, you did. Well, you wanted to kill him through a hallucination, but still, you did."

"And why would I want that?" he asked her with a hint of provocation.

"To want or not to want, that is the question."

Silence.

"I killed her."

"Chase? So tired you're getting your pronouns mixed up?"

He sighed. "I mean Cuddy."

House thought he had finally managed to shut her up, but then he remembered that hallucinations, and especially Amber, were particularly annoying.

"Okay. So you killed Cuddy. Do you kill people for a living? I mean, you killed me, too. Who's next?"

"I wasn't driving the bus. I didn't ask you to come pick me up. I had called Wilson."

"I wasn't drunk at five in the afternoon! How did she die? Bus crash? Wilson didn't pick you up so she kindly volunteered?"

"Fat embolism."

"Oh, let me think, I haven't actually been a doctor in so long... There are many possible causes for fat emboli... I need more data, how do you expect me to make a diagnosis with that?"

He sighed, "I cut her leg off."

"Just like that? Because it would be funny to have her look like you? Or because her legs are so gorgeous you wanted one for yourself?"

"Because she was going to die!" he shouted.

Yelling made him feel good. Great, even. He felt better, even though he was reduced to exorcise his pain with a dead woman. Still, it was better than nothing.

She shrugged. "You still tried to save her. It's not like you let her die of a disgusting gangrene. It was a gangrene, right?"

She offered him a half-sincere smile. She got off on torturing him, why would she suddenly comfort him? No – it was not her, it was his own sick brain! Amber stood up and leaned against the wall.

"Why don't you check your voice mail?" she asked, maybe a little too innocently.

Whereas he did not really want to, he searched through his pockets before he miraculously remembered where Foreman had put his phone, and dialled the number, although he knew exactly what to expect. There was a message, which had been saved four hours earlier; Lucas blabbering various insults to Lisa Cuddy. House slowly let rage invade him. This dumbass dared insult her while she was dead. In an absolutely hateful gesture, he threw his phone against the wall, which broke into two pieces at the impact.

"Watch out, you could have hurt me," Amber whined.

"This little piece of shit..."

She grabbed her right ankle, folded her knee and brought her heel to her backside. She was perfectly balanced on her left leg.

"Would you love me too if I were like that? Like her?"

"No," he sighed. She wobbled. "I didn't... tell her I loved her. I didn't tell her anything..."

He felt tears rush up to his eyes and did not even try to hold them back. He missed Cuddy terribly. He wanted to see her again. He wanted to tell her what he had not dared to admit in front of her closed eyes. It would not be her exactly, but he'd have to settle for it.

"And I'm feeling so bad, and so good, I don't know what to do..."

He swallowed another pill and curled up on the floor.

His face drenched with tears and Amber's smooth voice lulling him to slumber, he fell asleep.


Root of an Unfocus – Boris Berman

House recognized the ER, although the room was bathed in a blinding white light, which dit not come from the neon lights, but stagnated like fog. The beds, the green curtains between them, the crash carts and so on were still there. And yet, it was deserted. Nobody was there. Not a single patient, not a single doctor or nurse. The only thing he could hear were distant, almost inhuman screams amongst the morbid silence. He noticed that his hands were covered with blood. The red liquid was dripping to the floor, creating a trail which disappeared behind a wall, as though he had just walked backwards.

He followed the bloody trail, which led up to the stairs. He climbed them up. Then he noticed that he did not need his cane. He was not even limping. He was holding his arms out as though he were carrying a body but he was incapable of moving his upper limbs, almost fascinated by his sullied hands.

The screams stopped when he reached the second floor. Pediatrics, operating rooms, intensive care unit, labs. Although he was wearing his leather jacket, House was freezing. The blood led him into one of the operating rooms. He pushed the door open with his elbows, as a scrubbed surgeon would. Below the powerful lights and in the middle of the room, was an operating table. Cuddy was lying there, entirely bare. The blood flowing from half her leg had pooled at the feet of the table, from which House's red trail emanated. Unafraid, House walked to her and, instinctively, covered her stump with his hands to stop the bleeding. He quickly realised that it was useless. The white fog was enhancing her own pallidity and she looked beautiful.

Although she was dead, she spoke up, "You promised me I'd live."

She opened her eyes. They were white. No iris, no pupil. White.

"You heard me scream, House."

He did not let go of her stump. He tried to apologize, to put together the words that were strolling across his brain and make a sentence or two with them, but he could not. He could not apologize for killing her. One did not apologize for such a thing.

"You gave up on me."

One paid the consequences.

He felt a strong burning sensation on his chest. His heartbeats became louder and louder, he even feared that his eardrums might burst. He glanced down and saw the Y-shaped cut on his torso, as if he were examined alive. He stared at his diaphragm pushing his rib cage upwards, his lungs inflating and deflating. He was losing all his blood but he was not worried about it. He could survive.

"Why, House?"

Cuddy's empty stare never left the scialytic lamps. Her corneas began to roast.

He had to wake up. Now.


On The Nature Of Daylight – Max Richter

House had the impression of falling. He woke up with a start, his back hit the tub, he leaned on the wrong thigh and toppled onto his stomach with a groan. He had experienced more agreeable awakenings in the past. His fist was trembling, gripping the orange bottle, which he uncapped with difficulty and swallowed a pill, allowing the pain to fade. His thigh had not ached that much in a year. If he were experiencing withdrawal symptoms already, he was going to have to find a way to restock his hydrocodone stash. If he tried forging Wilson's prescriptions, his friend would find out eventually and send him back to Mayfield. And House did not want to be cured; he wanted Cuddy.

His eyelids grew heavy, his mind misted up and his breathing slowed down. He was struggling to stay awake, he didn't want to experience another nightmare. In fact, he did want to dream, only awake – which was called hallucinating.

"Cuddy," he whimpered desperately.

"I'm here."

He opened his eyes and met her blue gaze. Cuddy was kneeling in front of him, clad in brand new pink scrubs, a sad smile stretching her lips. Her dark hair was gathered in a messy ponytail and her legs were intact. As though nothing had happened.

He tried to say her name but he choked on his own tears. He sat up, wrapped his arms around her and burst out sobbing. She whispered 'shhh' a few times and rocked him like a child.

"I'm here, House. It's okay."

"Missed you," he managed to utter.

He knew that she wasn't real and he was only embracing air. He wanted to be with her so much it felt all the more real. He could feel the fabric of her clothes in his hands, her hair tickling his nose, and her perfume was heady. And yet, it was only a dream.

He hugged her tighter and his shoulder jerked. Thanks to the drug, the area was numbed but he knew it was supposed to hurt.

Cuddy was slipping away. Afraid of losing her, he gripped her tighter and kept her close to him.

"We should re-bandage your shoulder," she explained calmly. "It's gonna get infected."

She stood up. House tried to imitate her, she rested her hand on his shoulder to convince him otherwise. His muscles were still too weak, anyway. He watched her rummage through his cupboards. He did not know if he were doing that or if he only imagined it. It bugged him a little, but he knew that living with a dead woman was going to earn him a lot of doubts. And Cuddy was definitely worth it.

He attempted to remove his jacket in order to save some time. His arms were stiff. He growled with frustration. He could not even take off a damn garment!

"Don't bother, I'll do it," Cuddy told him in a soft voice.

He let his arms fall back to his sides. She knelt before him, seized the tails of his jacket and slid it off his arms gently, one after the other. It was rather chilly, which caused him to shiver. She then removed his shirt stained with dried blood, followed by the reddened piece of gauze. Cuddy placed another rectangle of the white fabric on his shoulder and fixed his bandage with surgical tape. She was absent-mindedly caressing his chest. House watched her fingers stroll across his skin. He was dreaming her so powerfully that her presence, albeit imaginary, was incredibly soothing. She kissed his sternum and rubbed her nose into the small heap of hair. Her hands rested on his shoulder blades and he embraced her back, his arms wrapping around her petite frame. He briefly thought that their bodies fitted perfectly together. It was as though their curves had been made to complete each other. His large arms were wrapped around her back, his hands nestled into the crook of her waist and the small of her back. It was perfect.

He knew that she was dead, that he had killed her after causing her the worst pain possible. He remembered it every time he laid his eyes on her. Even though he could not bear it, he liked to think that he had some extra time with her, so that they could enjoy what should have been lying ahead of them : endless happiness.

She took a small step back, stared into his eyes.

"I wanna kiss you," she said.

"Please."

She smiled, cupped his cheek tenderly and her lips touched his own. Although the idea of her kissing him was giving him much pleasure, he did not feel the heat of her mouth, and it was disturbing him, but he did not have a choice. He would get used to it.

They deepened their embrace. Their moans dying into each other's breath were not enough. Cuddy slipped down to his chin, her teeth only brushing his stubble. She nibbled the skin of his neck and coughed when she sensuously licked his Adam's apple.

"You're all dusty," she murmured, caressing his scalp. Little grey crumbs fell down to his collarbone while her fingers combed his hair. "And you're bloody... Here." Her finger drew a dark trail from the red stain on his shoulder to his navel. "You should take a shower."

"You just re-bandaged my shoulder."

"It's fine. We can always do it again."

Cuddy dropped a kiss to his lips. He observed her extract the pieces of mirror from the tub. She accidentally cut herself but did not bleed. She gathered the debris into her palms and threw them into the bin. House had noticed that she did not have a reflection.

Carefully, she undressed him entirely. He feared that his scar would disgust her, but it was a silly thought. She only existed in his imagination. She did whatever his subconscious wished her to do. If he did not want her to be disgusted, then she would not be disgusted. It made sense.

Apparently, his subconscious also wanted her to bend over and kiss his scar. Which she did. She whispered to him that she was sorry she had caused him so much pain during all these years. His throat tightened and he was unable to answer anything.

She removed his shoes, massaged his tired feet for a while, pecked his toes. A pang of heartache hit him when he remembered that none of it was real; he was imagining everything.

She helped him stand up. He was bare in front of her. She let him lean on her shoulder so that he could get into the tub. He had no clue if he had actually thrown the pieces of glass away. If not, he was going to hurt himself pretty badly. He ran the risk. Successfully.

After kicking off her shoes, she turned on the tap and joined him, still dressed. The hot water on his skin made him tremble. Cuddy grabbed a soap and rubbed it tenderly on his chest, drawing large white trails, before taking care of the rest of his body. As she gently rubbed her soapy hands on his face, she kissed him tenderly.

He gazed at her. The water from the overhead nozzle was soaking them, but Cuddy was still dry, as though the droplets landed on her without a trace. Or maybe they were simply avoiding her.

He was cuddling her while she washed him, a smile on her face. He freed her hair. Her dark mane tumbled on her shoulders. He lifted her pink top and she raised her arms. She only got wet once he had removed her bra.

House wrapped his arms around her. She snuggled up against his chest, pressing her skin to his own for awhile, the water warming them. She eventually took a step back to rinse him correctly, her hands sliding down his arms, before she once again found herself where she belonged, right between his arms.

After a few minutes, they stepped out of the tub, kissing madly. Cuddy turned around to get an old, worn out towel from one of his cupboards, House dropping a swarm of kisses to the back of her neck. He desperately needed physical contact with her. She was his rock, as well as the fruit of his misery. She dried him thoroughly, though avoiding to rub the rough material against his skin. The towel was lying on the floor in no time. The diagnostician grabbed the back of her head gently and brought her lips closer to his own. He kissed her again, thinking that he'd never grow tired of it. Cuddy clung to his neck, moaning against his mouth. Her pelvis ground against his. House grabbed her backside forcefully. She replied by biting his lip. He invited her to wrap her legs around his waist, and she left his mouth aside for a moment so that she could lean onto his shoulder. He held her solidly, pressing her breasts against his chest. He took her to his bedroom, his lips only brushing hers. He had always dreamt to hold her like that. When he'd fantasise about her, he'd always imagine that he was strong enough to carry her to his bed, which he promised himself to make theirs. Now that she did not weigh a single gram – since she did not exist anymore – he could do it easily.

This single thought almost caused them to lose their balance. Cuddy hugged him tighter and laughed softly. He tightened his embrace as well and limped into the bedroom, which was bathed in warm sunrays. He laid her delicately on the bed; anticipating, she arched in a more than sultry gesture, lifting her chest towards him. She offered him a provocative gaze, her eyes gleaming with desire as they plunged into his own. He joined her more than willingly, swooping down on his prey to capture her lips. The aforesaid prey surrounded his neck with her slender hands, keeping him as close to him as possible.

House rested a hand on her breast, and did not feel her heart beat and it was okay.

Kutner, standing at the feet of the bed, announced his usual comment, "Too bad it isn't true."

END


I am so sorry. I hope you guys aren't too disappointed :/

Cuddy wasn't supposed to die. Bombshells unfortunately aired while I was writing the end of the story. I had to vent all of my anger, frustration, sadness, on something, and this something turned out to be the story I had been writing.

Having gotten over Bombshells (a little. Sort of.) I kinda want to change the ending, but death is pretty definitive, right? Although I'm quite satisfied that they'll still be togethah forevah!

Thank you for reading :)