Gregory House arrived at Remy Hadley's door at 4am. Knocked on the door. The Window. Kicked the door. Nothing. "Thirteen!" Kicked again. "Thirteen, get you ass out here!" Nothing. He launched himself at the door, it took three knocks before finally giving way. "Thirteen! Remy?" He was using her real name. It was bad. There was still no reply.
The apartment was black. Darkness was not to blame. The walls caked in dust, clothes strewn in messy piles, some not even hers. The place reeked of marijuana, the smell weaving into his skin and clothes. There was a chemical smell too, other drugs, some prescription, some illegal, some just plain deadly. Pill bottles littered the hallway.
The kitchen had no food in it. The trash was empty.
The bedroom was a mess; just like the hallway but with a bed messily made as it's focal point. In it's centre a huddled figure lay contorted in tiredness and incomparable pain. Even through clothes that the body swam in, stark, sharp bones protruded from transparent skin. Her sexy slanted eyes marred by the heavy black circles weighing them down, purple veins visible beneath tightly stretched skin. He touched her hollowed out cheek. "Thirteen?" She was cold.
"Pretend I did this. Pretend I saved you."
He would find her lying in the hallway, convulsing in pain, broken, but breathing. He would lift her in his arms. She would be too frail, too weightless. But she would still be alive. "House." She would whisper, voice cracked and almost soundless, "are you really here?"
"Are you here to kill me?" Her face buries itself in his shoulder, he cradles her like a child. Her body would be wrong, waif-thin and sharp, not soft and gently curved. She would still be beautiful.
He would place her body down on the bed, huddled in pain. Her arm raises, pointing into the bathroom, shaking wracking her body with barely contained violence. "It's in the cabinet. I knew it was stupid, but I always hoped someone, anyone, would come and help me. I hoped it would be you."
He would slowly step inside the bathroom, careful to not take his eyes off of her, like she might fade if his eyes don't follow her. It's Wilson all over again. It's so different, so the same. He would open the bathroom cabinet. It's bare, but for one empty syringe and a bottle of clear liquid.
"It's not the Swiss stuff, just what I could swipe from the hospital. It should still work." Euthanasia.
He would nod and turn to face her. Wander back into her bedroom and lay on the bed beside her, pulling her head into his lap with an arm around her waist. Intimate, innocent, soft. He would kiss her forehead.
"Is it time to say goodnight?" She would laugh softly, not comprehending the finality of the moment. The syringe full of death's toxicity slips inside the back of her hand. A tear she doesn't understand would fall slowly down a sallow cheek, the calloused hand that wipes it away rough on fragile skin.
The plunger would be pushed slowly downwards, death infecting her bloodstream. She would sigh slightly, exhaustion like weights on tired eyes, pulling down lids slowly. Remy Hadley would fall into a sleep. He would hold her tightly as the life drained from her body. Then he would be holding a corpse. And he did it, he let her die.
But he didn't. That was a lie.
If the room didn't already resemble a bomb site, he would have torn it to shreds, feeling the insatiable urge to destroy something, or scream or do anything. It wasn't fair. Dammit! How could he feel so damn hopeless, helpless? Jesus Christ. His leg pain thrummed to life, screaming at him to fix the crap pile that had become of the world. But that was just it, wasn't it? God's final slap in the face, kick in the nuts. He was worthless and had no power. He could do nothing to save anyone anymore, not even those he cared about. He just watched as everything died and he couldn't do a damn thing about any of it.
He'd screwed up, left it too late. The Huntington's had gotten her. No, that wasn't right; she'd OD'd. Or starved to death. God, he was so lost, so damn tired that he couldn't care enough to work it out. Him. Gregory House didn't want to solve the puzzle. Too much had changed, too much had hurt. Everyone had died on him, but then, hadn't he died on all of them first? He wasn't exactly real anymore, not really alive; and by this point he didn't want to be. He was such a screw up, such a worthless bastard that he couldn't even kill someone right. What kind of doctor was he? What the hell was he anymore? But he knew:
He was too late.