A/N: So. House is over. What do I do with my life noooow? ;_;

This fic is a bit disconnected. I didn't really have a concrete path in how I was going to write it, so it doesn't really flow. But, for some reason, I'm quite content with the disconnectedness of the story. It translates back and forth between House's thoughts and his actions, one after another. Though, I would have said that thoughts don't really have a path to stick on; they just go off at random directions, which would have been my excuse to writing a fic such as this.

Pairing(s): hint of House/Cuddy, Wilson/Amber, hint of House/Amber, House/Wilson if you put your slash goggles on

There. He was just there. Now he's gone. Where did he go? He couldn't know. Couldn't tell. It all happened so fast.

He's in a hospital bed. His body hurt, but he's patched up. It's dark. There's barely anyone around now. The hospital's reaching its closing hour. The noise of a nearby flickering light was irritating him. Actually, right now, everything annoyed him. His own breathing. The hand clutching onto his. He didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve it all.

His weary eyes were still fixated on that spot, unable - or maybe, unwilling - to blink. In his eyes, he was still there. Still standing. Staring at him. Staring at a broken man in a hospital bed. No. No. They were both broken. Who was more broken? He couldn't tell. He could never tell. Not anymore.

A soft groan broke out as he moved his head to the side; to the source of the hand that held onto his. Cuddy. She was asleep. She looked so peaceful, curled up in that chair. He opened his mouth to say something, but the dryness of his throat and tongue caused him to create an exhale instead. He sucked in his lips and tried to moisten them, only barely succeeding. He shifted his head back, now staring at his previous spot. "Wilson…" he muttered out, almost inaudible.

As he heard himself speak out his best friend's name, the injured man made a sour expression. Wilson. Wilson had gone through too much. Too much for him to handle. Wilson was probably in his car, crying his eyes out as he thought about what had recently happened. Or at least, that's what he thought. He knew that Wilson couldn't handle it. He knew that Wilson hated him for it. He knew that Wilson was so damaged. But he knew that his friend would get over it. It would just take time.

He stopped thinking about Wilson for a while. Instead, he thought about the cause of Wilson's depression.


She… she was… the bitch to his bastard. They fit well together. Amber. The cutthroat bitch. Paired along with House, the calculating bastard.

House let out a sigh. He could've saved her. He could've done so many things to keep her alive. But he couldn't. He couldn't because the universe hated him. The universe was pulling the old karma Houdini stunt on him for being such an ass to her. And not just Amber. To so many people. His colleagues, his family, his friends. Or, well, friend. House wasn't too sure whether or not he had a friend other than Wilson, but he knew that Wilson was his only true friend.

Still. He never could make Wilson happy. And it was all his fault. It was always his fault. He had nobody to blame for what happened to Amber. House was selfish, unaware, and drunk at the time - much like his usual self - but he put her life in danger. The result was devastating. And it lead to this. It lead to a heartbroken Wilson and a self-deprecating House.

His mind raced and yet, he couldn't function properly. Little, simple words wedged into his head, but not for long. It hurt his head to construct a lengthy sentence. In every sentence he tried to make, or every thought, it was something Amber related. He didn't want to think about her, but he couldn't help it. His brain was going against what he wanted. He wanted to forget about her, but he couldn't.

You did this to her.

It shocked him, but only for a moment.

Oh, will you shut up?

It hurt. Arguing with himself was the last thing he wanted to do at this very moment.

Amber's dead because of you. Don't you feel bad?

Wilson, stop. Get out of my goddamn head. Just stop it.

Even if Wilson was nowhere around him, he still had an effect on House. Kind of like a nagging conscience.

I have to know. Do you feel bad?

No. Of course not. Why would I feel bad about her?

Silence now. Nothing but silence. The nagging conscience was gone and it was just House in control of his own mind. Though, the fact that the argument in his head had abruptly ended made him afraid. His face was calm, but his tragic blue eyes screamed it out. His chest tightened and he could hear his heartbeat escalate. House, without realizing it at first, squeezed tightly at Cuddy's hand. He only noticed it when he heard her make a noise, something like a grunt, which immediately made him let go of her hand.

He was still scared. Soon, a headache began to form. A low grunt expelled from him and he groped around for Cuddy's hand. When he found the source of warmth - and strangely, comfort - he twiddled his near-bony fingers with hers. Elegantly damaged fingers meeting delicate, trained fingers. He needed a source of comfort. Like a child wanting his mother to hold his hand. Like a child scraping his knee playing at the playground and wanting his mother to tend to his boo-boo. He needed it. He didn't want it, but he knew that the only way to cure this 'boo-boo' is to find solace. Some kind of relief.

House didn't want to think about Wilson or Amber or anything. But it was the only thing that kept hounding at his head. He shouldn't feel this. He should just apologize for being responsible for her death and forget about it. But no. That's not how it worked, apparently.

It's all Wilson's fault. If it hadn't been for him and his stupid emotions and getting close to Amber, he wouldn't have felt like this.

He's such a selfish asshole. Only caring about himself. What about me? I'm injured! He should be taking care of me! I almost died in that bus!

Ha. I did whatever I could to save her. It's not my fault she's dead.

Silence again. His headache's slowly fading. All he could hear is his own breathing and his heart pulsing. Oh, what it is to be alive. Narrowing his eyes, House heaved out a sigh. Finally closing his eyes, he shifted slightly, trying to get comfortable. He had given up. He didn't want to argue with it anymore - whatever it was. House let the thoughts drown him, engulf him into a sea of realization and truth.

It was my fault and now Wilson's crumbling.

It should've been me.

She shouldn't have gotten on that bus. She shouldn't have left to get me.

I should've done more. She could have-

No. She wouldn't. She'd still be dead.

Besides, being on bypass, it's hell. Wilson did the right thing.

It still should've been me.

Now he hates me.

I don't want him to.

I'm sorry.

The thoughts kept swirling around his head. His heart was aching and he couldn't do anything about it. And his heart hated him. His heart wouldn't trust him. And House didn't want it. He didn't want his heart to hate him because he needed it. He needed his heart to keep on going. He needed Wilson.

But he knew that Wilson wouldn't come back. Instead of waiting, House continued to let it all crash down on him. After a while, those thoughts became his lullaby and he dozed off.