House's head pounds out a steady, incessant rhythm of pain

House's head pounds out a steady, incessant rhythm of pain. In his mind, memories run black and white, with snippets of color, over and over, like a long forgotten movie reel. It beats, pounds, and comes to a crescendo, like right before the end of Sgt. Pepper. He wants to open his eyes, but the last time he did it only brought pain in the form of Wilson's tear filled eyes.

His mouth is as dry as the Gobi, and tastes of long forgotten scotch and Vicodin. He steadies himself internally and opens his eyes. There is no one there. There is a cup in front of him, and he grapples with it in order to get it to his mouth. He wonders how long he has been out. His thirst isn't quenched.

He shuts his eyes again, and the movie reel in his mind plays the same film. He wonders how long it will be, until he can close his eyes without seeing her dying, without seeing Wilson's heart breaking into tiny, little pieces. He wonders if Wilson will forgive him. He knows he can never forgive himself. The movie plays on.