Disclaimer: House doesn't belong to me… Yadda, yadda. This is a reaction to my depression after last nights episode and looking towards the finale.

No happy endings here. Character death. Yeah pretty depressing – I guess it's sort of a speculation about what will probably happen. (If House doesn't die sooner rather than later.)

The wind blew through the threadbare wool jacket, that had seen better days back when he worked for PPTH. He pulled it tighter, keeping around his thin body, his back hunched not only in an attempt to keep warm, but because he could no longer straighten his overly tall form any longer. He'd never had much flesh to keep the cold out and with the years he'd never expected to have, that had just been exaggerated. Last week, he'd gone to Stacy's. This week he was standing in front of Cuddy's grave. Ignoring Lucas's to the right. Next week he'd be at Wilson's. Then the week after that Chase's. Then he might fly to Chicago to see Cameron's – if he could be bothered.

That was the irony of all irony's. The man who shouldn't have lived past sixty. The one who should have OD'd or at best suffered systemic liver failure. He'd outlived them all.

The sad part was there was no pleasure in that. Not even in an I told you so way. Not that their death's made him any more alone than he'd been before their deaths. No, he'd been alone long before even one of them had died.

Here he was, ninety six years old, still in chronic, mind numbing pain ninety percent of the time and he hadn't died yet. The universe, he'd concluded, hated him.

In his minds eye he could still see her, in all her glory – the beautiful eyes, the bodacious body – and none of it ever to be his. Some people would be horrified, but it was in some ways easier now that she was dead. Even though her grave was beside the asshole's, he could pretend for a moment that he had her attention again – the way he'd had it once.

"You're not here, you know. Well, your bones are I guess. Even in my old age – I can't bring myself to believe that you're anything but gone." He shuffled his feet, ignoring the pain in his back and shoulders hunched, kicking the leaves and debris away from the headstone. "Miss you… Been missing you for years before you were even dead – so I guess that's not news. Talking to myself…" He said in disgust. Some people who would remain nameless would have told him this was good. It was something normal people did. The fact was he had nothing better to do.

Wilson had been right. He would die alone. More profoundly alone than the Oncologist ever would have guessed. When he was interred there would be no one there because everyone else had already passed.

There were no children, no lovers.

No one.

He reached into his pocket and withdrew the orange vial. His one constant, true – if destructive – companion. He twisted off the cap and tapped out two vicodin, then threw them into his mouth, swallowing them dry. He contemplated sitting by the headstone, then he shook his head – he'd never make it to his feet again. "I'm out of here… Can't be too sure you won't rise from the grave to try to get me to make up for all those clinic hours I skipped."

He began to walk away, heading back towards the bus stop that was his main form of transportation these days when he heard a voice. "House…" The cadence, the tone it was almost right – but the voice was just different enough. "That is *you* isn't it?"

He turned slowly. "Hey Mowgli…" He said in greeting. The woman's nose wrinkled just as it had every time he'd called her that, just as her mother had scowled when he called her that. "I'm leaving – you don't need to give me the bum's rush."

"I… I wasn't going to…" Rachel admitted. She had never liked the crippled doctor – any more than her father had (though he'd put on a show of it – so her mother had never known the disdain he'd felt for the other man).. However, seeing him at her mother's grave, alone gave her pause. "You didn't bring flowers…"

"Not like your mom's gonna sleep with me if I do now is it… If it's not getting me lucky, why should I bother?" House snarked back at her. In reality, when you had the medical issues he did – even years of working as a high paid Doctor – well he really couldn't afford to squander money on something like flowers. Rachel's reaction was to roll her eyes – she really was her mother's daughter, he thought with a slight smile.

"Did you want… did you want to come back to my house with me?" She offered – knowing it was something her mother would have wanted. "You could have dinner with my family and I."

For a moment, House considered it. It would have been nice, for a night – to have people around – people with a connection to the past. Still the reality set in – he shook his head. "Your parents are there…" He pointed back towards the two graves. "Your mother made the choice." He could have been far more acerbic if he'd chosen to – but instead it just came out sounding resigned.

"I know but you could…" Rachel tried once more half heartedly.

"No… Thanks but no thanks. There's nothing wrong with being the only one who hasn't died. I don't need your pity." He spat. That's what it was too. Seeing him there – she'd know that everyone was dead. The last thing he wanted was to be felt sorry for – to be pitied.

"You never change…" Rachel yelled back. "Stupid old fool."

"Didn't inherit your mother's quick wit… Oh wait that's right, you never could have – you didn't share genetic code. You were a mongrel she picked up in a crack house. Good thing she had you deloused." House snapped.

"Get the hell out… I don't know why I was so stupid as to try to be nice to you." Rachel responded coldly. "At least my mother learned to stop pinning all her hopes on you."

"At least I wasn't idiot enough to ever pin my hopes on her…" He lied as he moved towards the gates of the cemetary. "Hookers are so much easier to please…"