I know I have two unfinished House fics up already, but I was feeling a bit dark so I had to get this out of my system.

Its almost completely written so I'll update pretty fast if you guys like it, and depending on if I decide to make it longer than it currently is.

Darkfic. House/13. Enjoy. Let me know what you think. It gets a little lighter after this.

-E

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Your hand is shaking. You will it to stop, but it wont. This is because you're dying, but not because of the Huntington's chorea. You're scared. Air is trying to force itself from your lungs and burst through your sealed lips, but you wont let it. You push back the scream with all your might as you throw caution to the wind and shove the needle into your arm.

Now your whole body is shaking, but of course it is. That's what happens when you seize. You also feel your toes tingle, your jaw snapping shut, and a warm sensation between your legs that you hope dries before anyone finds you. On second thought, you could care less because you'll be dead.

You feel your eyes role into the back of your head, and you're plunged into the depths of your own humanity. You're eyes are so heavy that you cant even try to blink or open them, so you will them to never open again.

Darkness and light, there's nothing, and yet you feel everything. You wonder how you feel so numb, yet so alive, ironically just moments before you know you're going to die.

But then your eyes open. Your mouth opens, your ears open, your brain opens – you're alive. How did this happen? Your mouth is dry and it hurts to swallow. Your eardrums pound as the beeping of monitors causes sensory overload.

The room is too bright to see anything, but you know this isn't 'the light' you're seeing. This is your life, this is your hospital, this is your failure.

"You're alive," says a gruff voice. No compassion, no sadness, no disappointment. You search the voice for an inkling of emotion, you search everything for emotion, but like your life it's void of any real substance. It's a statement, not an epiphany or a praise or even a scolding.

"I'm dying." You choke out from your dry mouth. The sound of your own voice surprises yourself for a moment. You sound dead. You should be dead.

"Well, we've slowed it down. Your looking at eight more years rather than eight more seconds," The voice answers. You hear something that time. It takes you a moment to realize what it is, it always seems to take you a while to connect to feelings, but hen it finally hits you it's no big surprise. It's curiosity. He is House after all.

You want to reply, and for a moment, right after you open your mouth, you feel like you're connecting. You care enough to say something back, but then it's gone. Nothing you say changes anything. You shut your mouth.

He hands you a plastic cup of water that you can barely make out through your blurry vision. You take it your lips find the straw.

For a moment your mouth is in paradise. It's waking up, its alive.

"Thanks," You respond. Your voice still doesn't sound right, but you doubt that anything will be right for quite a while.

You sit up. You're abdomen is screaming at you. Your eyes threaten to tear. You have no clue why you're so sore. You feel like a bus has hit you, and you wish it had. Maybe then you wouldn't be sitting here.

Your vision slowly clears, and you see him still sitting there. He's judging you, and you really don't care. You're judging you, you're always judging. You remember being thirteen at your first school dance, the way John Kramer looked at you, you thought you looked good. He clearly disagreed. That was when you started judging yourself. Before the next dance you stared at yourself in the mirror for hours. Would John notice the small breasts you'd worked for hours with just the right amount of toilet paper to create, would Claire Cress think you were copying her with your jewel-toned dress? Would your father think you were precocious or cute with the bit of eye shadow you'd used? You'd stared until every scenario had crossed your mind and you'd figured out a way to solve each and every problem. You judged every fiber of your being until you knew you were perfect.

Now, fourteen years later you forgot to make any decisions for yourself. You were dying and there was no fairytale wedding with John Kramer, Claire Cress wasn't your best friend anymore, and there was no perfect smile matching everything you wore.

Now, your oversized hospital gown makes you look sick. But you are sick, in more than one way, and you know it.

"It's time to get to work." He says startling you out of your silent ramblings.

"Can I go?" You ask almost hopefully. But then you realize you feel a lot less alone here than you do at home.

"Of course," He laughs. You're hit with a wave of jealously. What you'd give to find humor in a situation again could sustain a country for a year.

"Your forty-eight hour suicide watch ends at nine pm tomorrow. So, you're by my side till then, and I need to be in my office." He un does the padded restraints, and your legs are free to stretch.

"You can walk." He says annoyed.

"Do you really not care than I just tried to kill myself?" You ask.

"Nope." He shakes his head, but you can tell that a little piece of him is lying. Granted, it might just be the piece that wants to know why because you both know it's more than just your grisly future. If it was because of your disease you'd wait till you were seeing symptoms to do it, and for now your body was chorea free.

"Can I have my clothes back?" You ask fully aware that this gown doesn't cover your ass.

"Nope, they're in the laundry down stairs, but I guess we can find you some scrubs." He grumbles. You hold the back of your gown shut as you follow him to the supply closet. He tosses you a pair of pink scrubs that you know you'll feel wrong wearing.

You head to the bathroom to put them on, and to your surprise he follows you in.

"Seriously?" You ask.

"I'll turn around." He says trying to be decent. You shake your head at the back of his head as you pull on the scrubs as quickly as you can. You don't put it past him to turn around suddenly.

"Let's go." You say once you're dressed. You glance at yourself in the mirror before you leave. Just long enough to see your reflection, if you look to long you'll judge.

You look like Allison Cameron, well sans the blonde hair and smiles and plus about four inches and seventeen years of self-hatred.

The pink is just wrong, and you see House smile at the irony.

"Our patient is a forty five year old Jane Doe. Found in a parking structure, raped and left to die from a stab to the abdomen. Then she had a stroke." House fills you in.

"Is she on the pill?" You ask as he pushes open the door of the diagnostics office.

"Nope," Forman answers. He's giving you an odd look, but you can tell he doesn't know. Taub doesn't either by the way he studies the file without looking up at you.

"I found our only homochromosomal doctor helping Cameron in the ER. She's even dressing like her. I think someone's been watching Single White Female." House jokes.

"It's been replaying every night on the Lifetime Channel." You deadpan. Forman gives you an odd look. He's surprised he didn't know that you liked Lifetime, you actually don't, but you don't fill him in. If he didn't take the time to really get to know you while you were dating then he doesn't deserve to get to know you now. Besides, if Kutner's suicide drove you apart those two short months ago, you don't know how he'd react to your failed attempt.