Gregory House passed away on a rainy September afternoon after falling asleep on the couch and not waking up again; he'd been sighted limping through the corridors of the Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital for eleven years, and now the steady thud of his trusty cane would never haunt another man again.
The good news? It wasn't liver-failure, a drug overdose, a heart attack, a bike accident, a gunshot... it was life.
Wilson, who by then had found another girlfriend and had moved in with her, found him. He called 911 and vaguely heard an EMT call time of death as his world spun around him and the bottles of beer he'd brought with him fell to the floor...
The good news? He'd been there at House's funeral, crying, and he'd left his girlfriend at home because House had never liked her.
She rebelled against him after sometime, and left. It had not been House.
He moved into House's apartment and spent the first few days on the couch, just because.
Exactly two weeks after moving in, he took the motorcycle for a spin and discovered it was fun... he cried all the way.
The next day, he wrapped it around a pole.
The good news? He had to take the bus the next day with only a sprained wrist, and the intoxicated truck driver that came rushing toward the bus...
missed.
-
Cuddy heard the news while dealing with an angry patient: the legendary last victim of Gregory House. She stood up for him, saved his ass for the very last time.
She cried a million tears lonely, alone, at her desk, where she'd been alone for a thousand times, but only felt lonely now. She couldn't bring herself to go home yet and called a babysitter... her heels carried her past his office in disbelief, expecting to see him there, smug face and all, perched like a king atop his recliner; challenging her.
He wasn't.
The low cut top she'd been wearing that day, secretly for him, was stained with tears.
The good news? The next day, Joy's teacher was looking at her in confusion: She, upon her teacher's request to draw a house, had drawn a stick puppet with something weird running out of his arm.
"What's that?" He asked, gently.
"House." She said, shrugging.
"Really?"
"Yes! That's uncle Stick's name!" The six year old beamed.
One of her oldest memories would always be the sight of a cane, traced upwards by her eyes to reveal a wrinkled shirt, blue eyes that if not kind, were very wise.
When she and Cuddy attended the funeral, Cuddy lifted her so she could lay the cane atop House's coffin... Uncle Stick's stick had to go with him, after all.
Cuddy pressed a kiss to her forehead, smiling through her tears.
Well into her teenage years, she would follow her mother to his grave, setting a new cane aside his marble gravestone... so he didn't trip.
A blue eyed boy watched from a distance... Cuddy had called him Gregory. He went left where she told him to go right... and she wouldn't have wanted it any other way.
Besides: Wilson always brought him back.
-
Foreman heard it while staring at the white board... he'd done it again. He'd done it for the last time. It was Foreman's turn now... He stood, mouth slightly agape, watching House's messy scribblings on the white board.
He would never be able to match every curve of those letters, never be able to replicate every corner and every line,
but he'd try.
He'd try his hardest: save those people, lead the fellows... but as always, when someone is offered a great deal of independence, he was at first overwhelmed by the desire to be lead,
So he cried, silently, almost unnoticeable.
The good news? Thirteen was there to comfort him, as he was there to comfort her... he kept the lacrosse ball; throwing it against the wall, sometimes fooling himself into thinking that his boss' cane was thumping loudly in the hallway, coming to collect him for another diagnosis... and when he did, he would look outside, seeing no one.
Nothing.
But he'd never forget.
Every time he saved someone, he'd remember:
He'd thought House would kill himself in some way, the logical, obvious, way to go about it...
but that hadn't happened.
House never dealt with common cases, never horses... only zebra's, complicated things.
So Foreman dedicated the rest of his life to recognizing every stripe.
-
Foreman told Thirteen. Who had been baptised Thirteen by House, and knew she'd never shake those two digits... he'd been such a jerk to her, to everyone... but he had been a fighter. Such a fighter that knew his disability, felt his pain and did not deny, but ignore it. Because he'd become obsessed with it if he didn't.
It wasn't all about prolonging her life just as his life hadn't revolved solely around eliminating pain: he lived as well. Although he lived for his job only, he did live for something other than pain.
She was glad he'd went the painless, truly painless way... but she did cry. Because she'd never hear those cruel remarks again...
The good news? Foreman was there. He held her as they remembered House, and as she died 21 years later... and she had lived.
Truly lived.
Forever reminded to do so by the number Thirteen.
-
Cameron heard it during her shift in the ER, crying instantly... She'd watched him die many a time and he always came back, always!
But, his time just seemed to be up. He went without much ado, which she deemed unlike him, because that was not the House she had known.
Nevertheless, she'd known and loved a wise man, that had shaped her as a doctor with his sharpened tongue and wit... yet, she'd never seen him happy, or without pain.
She remembered him their date: crude, rude, honest, closed off... he'd been made that way, she told herself, and hoped that it had all been undone now, wishing she could've seen him like that.
He would never have let her.
Never.
The good news? Chase let her cry. She remembered his lessons, the way his hand gripped his thigh...
The way he knew.
Always knew.
Remembered narcissism and smugness, grins and smirks, the outrageous treatments she had always been so opposed to that actually worked...
She remembered the blue shirt that almost made him look nice, his eyes to match... and she remembered Chase as he laid down next to her on their first night without the man that had always been their compass when faced with a difficult situation...
House would always be north.
Chase would always be next to her.
-
Chase came right out of the OR when he heard it.
His scrubs stained with blood, he looked at them as if it was House's.
The jerk that fired him, shaped him, mentored him, taught him and taunted him was gone...
Whatever kind of father figure House had been, he would mourn. He would mourn wasted life lessons and amusing witty remarks he would only tolerate from one man, because he knew that they had a core of truth to them...
He showered for a long time after that, losing track of his tears in the water...
The good news? Months later, he was walking down the Gregory House memorial wing... and it was unlike House to have such a thing, but things always broke there... electric beds stopped working, stethoscopes fell apart, lights went out...
They soon dubbed it the broken wing... that fit perfectly.
-
Taub and Kutner mourned his death in their own ways, taking whatever lesson they'd learned and savouring it... serving under Foreman, but thinking as House.
-
The good news? No one could forget him. The rumour that he was haunting the broken wing stuck around for decades: every new fellow that entered the diagnostics department still feared to see Gregory House; ready to mess with their minds...
He never lost his touch.
Author's Notes: so sad... I love him. I really do. I'm once again at a loss what to think of this thing but I sure tried my very best!
Comments are most welcome!
The good news? It wasn't liver-failure, a drug overdose, a heart attack, a bike accident, a gunshot... it was life.
Wilson, who by then had found another girlfriend and had moved in with her, found him. He called 911 and vaguely heard an EMT call time of death as his world spun around him and the bottles of beer he'd brought with him fell to the floor...
The good news? He'd been there at House's funeral, crying, and he'd left his girlfriend at home because House had never liked her.
She rebelled against him after sometime, and left. It had not been House.
He moved into House's apartment and spent the first few days on the couch, just because.
Exactly two weeks after moving in, he took the motorcycle for a spin and discovered it was fun... he cried all the way.
The next day, he wrapped it around a pole.
The good news? He had to take the bus the next day with only a sprained wrist, and the intoxicated truck driver that came rushing toward the bus...
missed.
-
Cuddy heard the news while dealing with an angry patient: the legendary last victim of Gregory House. She stood up for him, saved his ass for the very last time.
She cried a million tears lonely, alone, at her desk, where she'd been alone for a thousand times, but only felt lonely now. She couldn't bring herself to go home yet and called a babysitter... her heels carried her past his office in disbelief, expecting to see him there, smug face and all, perched like a king atop his recliner; challenging her.
He wasn't.
The low cut top she'd been wearing that day, secretly for him, was stained with tears.
The good news? The next day, Joy's teacher was looking at her in confusion: She, upon her teacher's request to draw a house, had drawn a stick puppet with something weird running out of his arm.
"What's that?" He asked, gently.
"House." She said, shrugging.
"Really?"
"Yes! That's uncle Stick's name!" The six year old beamed.
One of her oldest memories would always be the sight of a cane, traced upwards by her eyes to reveal a wrinkled shirt, blue eyes that if not kind, were very wise.
When she and Cuddy attended the funeral, Cuddy lifted her so she could lay the cane atop House's coffin... Uncle Stick's stick had to go with him, after all.
Cuddy pressed a kiss to her forehead, smiling through her tears.
Well into her teenage years, she would follow her mother to his grave, setting a new cane aside his marble gravestone... so he didn't trip.
A blue eyed boy watched from a distance... Cuddy had called him Gregory. He went left where she told him to go right... and she wouldn't have wanted it any other way.
Besides: Wilson always brought him back.
-
Foreman heard it while staring at the white board... he'd done it again. He'd done it for the last time. It was Foreman's turn now... He stood, mouth slightly agape, watching House's messy scribblings on the white board.
He would never be able to match every curve of those letters, never be able to replicate every corner and every line,
but he'd try.
He'd try his hardest: save those people, lead the fellows... but as always, when someone is offered a great deal of independence, he was at first overwhelmed by the desire to be lead,
So he cried, silently, almost unnoticeable.
The good news? Thirteen was there to comfort him, as he was there to comfort her... he kept the lacrosse ball; throwing it against the wall, sometimes fooling himself into thinking that his boss' cane was thumping loudly in the hallway, coming to collect him for another diagnosis... and when he did, he would look outside, seeing no one.
Nothing.
But he'd never forget.
Every time he saved someone, he'd remember:
He'd thought House would kill himself in some way, the logical, obvious, way to go about it...
but that hadn't happened.
House never dealt with common cases, never horses... only zebra's, complicated things.
So Foreman dedicated the rest of his life to recognizing every stripe.
-
Foreman told Thirteen. Who had been baptised Thirteen by House, and knew she'd never shake those two digits... he'd been such a jerk to her, to everyone... but he had been a fighter. Such a fighter that knew his disability, felt his pain and did not deny, but ignore it. Because he'd become obsessed with it if he didn't.
It wasn't all about prolonging her life just as his life hadn't revolved solely around eliminating pain: he lived as well. Although he lived for his job only, he did live for something other than pain.
She was glad he'd went the painless, truly painless way... but she did cry. Because she'd never hear those cruel remarks again...
The good news? Foreman was there. He held her as they remembered House, and as she died 21 years later... and she had lived.
Truly lived.
Forever reminded to do so by the number Thirteen.
-
Cameron heard it during her shift in the ER, crying instantly... She'd watched him die many a time and he always came back, always!
But, his time just seemed to be up. He went without much ado, which she deemed unlike him, because that was not the House she had known.
Nevertheless, she'd known and loved a wise man, that had shaped her as a doctor with his sharpened tongue and wit... yet, she'd never seen him happy, or without pain.
She remembered him their date: crude, rude, honest, closed off... he'd been made that way, she told herself, and hoped that it had all been undone now, wishing she could've seen him like that.
He would never have let her.
Never.
The good news? Chase let her cry. She remembered his lessons, the way his hand gripped his thigh...
The way he knew.
Always knew.
Remembered narcissism and smugness, grins and smirks, the outrageous treatments she had always been so opposed to that actually worked...
She remembered the blue shirt that almost made him look nice, his eyes to match... and she remembered Chase as he laid down next to her on their first night without the man that had always been their compass when faced with a difficult situation...
House would always be north.
Chase would always be next to her.
-
Chase came right out of the OR when he heard it.
His scrubs stained with blood, he looked at them as if it was House's.
The jerk that fired him, shaped him, mentored him, taught him and taunted him was gone...
Whatever kind of father figure House had been, he would mourn. He would mourn wasted life lessons and amusing witty remarks he would only tolerate from one man, because he knew that they had a core of truth to them...
He showered for a long time after that, losing track of his tears in the water...
The good news? Months later, he was walking down the Gregory House memorial wing... and it was unlike House to have such a thing, but things always broke there... electric beds stopped working, stethoscopes fell apart, lights went out...
They soon dubbed it the broken wing... that fit perfectly.
-
Taub and Kutner mourned his death in their own ways, taking whatever lesson they'd learned and savouring it... serving under Foreman, but thinking as House.
-
The good news? No one could forget him. The rumour that he was haunting the broken wing stuck around for decades: every new fellow that entered the diagnostics department still feared to see Gregory House; ready to mess with their minds...
He never lost his touch.
Author's Notes: so sad... I love him. I really do. I'm once again at a loss what to think of this thing but I sure tried my very best!
Comments are most welcome!
