A/N: Shoutout to Office Space, from which I borrowed a depressing thought this chapter.

This is the totally last part of this depressing fic, I promise. Please let me know what you think!

To Lisa.Cuddy

From Gregory.House

Subject: suicide

I won't be coming in to work today, or any day from now on. I'm dead.

Don't leap out of your chair and start calling 9-1-1. There's no point. I've got enough drugs here to euthanize half the hospital, and by the time you read this in the morning, I'll have been dead for hours and hours.

About my team: If you decide to get rid of them, there are letters of recommendation in my desk drawer. If you want to keep a Diagnostics department though, you should fire Cameron because she'll be too emotional to do her job, but Chase and Foreman should stay. Chase will have the better ideas – he thinks most like me – but he couldn't be in charge if his life depended on it and Foreman's actually not bad. Under the letters you'll find a few resumes. Hire one of them. I checked up on these people, interviewed them, and I like them because they'll be able to do the job and they're in awe of me/us. Foreman and Chase will need the confidence booster, at least at first.

About my place: Take Steve somewhere where they don't put down rat poison, and let him go. You and Wilson can divvy up my stuff if you want it. I've destroyed all the diaries, photos, anything else you might find awkward. Like my massive sex toy collection.

About my funeral: My parents may have some preferences. I guess I would choose cremation if it were up to me, but considering I'll be dead it won't really matter. If they decide to bury me, I want to be buried with my cane, my first stethoscope (bottom drawer of my desk) and a full bottle of Vicodin in my pocket. No, I am not kidding. I'll feel better.

About people: People may ask you why I'm doing it. The answer is because, as you know, I am miserable and I am in pain. Every day gets a little worse than the one before it, which means – think about it – that every day is actually the worst day of my life. I am sick of waking up every morning knowing that today is going to be the worst day of my life. I've stuck it out as long as I could. You and Wilson and Stacy and my team and my poker guys have been bright spots (and thank you), but it's just not enough any more.

If Stacy shows up feeling guilty, make sure you tell her that none of this is her fault. Don't say I don't blame her, because that's not true and she'll know it, but see if you can get her not to blame herself. If my parents show up, say whatever you would normally say to grieving parents. Our parent/child relationship was never very personal; there's no need to try and change that now.

Keep an eye on Wilson. We haven't been talking much lately, and he hasn't shown up on my doorstep in almost a week. I know he just switched his antidepressant meds, which suggests what he's on wasn't doing it for him, and I don't know how the new ones are working yet. I'm not saying I expect him to break down and shoot up the hospital or anything, but he may drop out of sight for a while and hole up in his hotel room to wallow. Try and draw him out if you can. Make sure he's okay. I'm attaching a note to this email you can give him when he calms down. I didn't want to send it directly because he's actually anal enough to check his work email address at home, and I don't want this news to break until the morning.

So I think that's it. Thanks. Thanks for taking care of these loose ends for me, and for having my back with (most of) the risks I've taken around the hospital. I was lying when I said you'd be a bad mother – you've managed to mother me all this time and if you can manage me you can manage anything.

Wear something low-cut to the funeral so I can get one last goodbye peek at the twins. Tell them they made me smile and I regret not trying to kiss them when I had the chance.


Wilson –

I'm dead. I know you'd rather hear a goodbye in person, but then you'd try and talk me out of it, and when that didn't work you'd try and stop me. I'd end up doing it anyway in the end, so we're skipping the middle steps and you just get an email. Sorry.

I'm sure we both wish things had gone differently lately. I'm okay with it now though. I'm sorry for my screw-ups, and I forgive you for yours. I want us to be okay.

You can remember the good stuff if you want, but don't think of me that often and don't get all gloomy and regretful when you do. I fully expect your life to be better without me in it. I don't want you ever to feel bad about that.

Good luck, have fun, and take care of yourself. You're the best best friend I could have imagined, and a far better one than I deserved.


PS - Okay, I lied: you're not the best best friend I could have imagined. You'd be better if you were female and beautiful. Or maybe if you were made out of cotton candy. But otherwise...