misanthrope_md | (no subject)

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TRIGGER WARNING: Attempted suicide.

It was House's father that showed up first, as if he didn't hate this enough already.

"You've done a lot of selfish things in your life, son," the ex-marine said gruffly, standing rod straight in front of House's bed. "But this is a new record."

"Shut the fuck up, dad," he muttered, as he folded paper. "You're not even my real father anyway. You didn't bring me into this world, you have nothing to do with the way I choose to go out of it."

A shrug, almost imperceptible, from the old man. "You could be right about that. On second thought, you're probably doing them all a favor. I didn't like hearing your whining for eighteen years, I don't know how anyone could handle you now."

That was more like it. House wrote something on the back of the folded paper, not looking up at his father. "You're not really here," he said.

"Good thing. I doubt I could stand the shame of my only son taking the easy way out because his leg hurts a little."

"Fuck you, dad."

When House looked up a few seconds later, he was gone.

Next, it was Wilson. For the most fleeting of seconds House entertained the idea that he might be real, but then that was gone.

"There's a reason you haven't touched the belladonna painkiller in so long," he said, looking down at House on the bed. "You're losing your mind."

"I think at this point hallucinations are the least of my problems, Jimmy," House muttered. He stacked the pieces of folded paper on his nightstand and slid his legs over the edge of the bed, beginning to unbutton his long-sleeved shirt.

"Maybe you wanted to say goodbye," Wilson said. "To me, at least. Since you don't have the guts to do it for anyone who really matters."

"I don't need a lecture from you right now. If you really wanted to help me you would be here. You wouldn't have left. Twice." Bitterness dripped from House's voice. He didn't particularly even care that it was obviously all in his head.

"Were you hoping you'd just be able to overdose on it?" Wilson asked, ignoring him.

"Poisoning is an ugly way to die," said House, and realized his fingers were shaking a little on the buttons.

"Oh yeah, blood is so much prettier. Greg..."

"Don't call me that. You don't get to be my friend. Not when you're not here." And then for good measure, added, "Fuck you." He didn't have to look up this time to know that James was gone.

A few minutes later, he actually thought that he felt eyes on him when he sat down on the bed, back against the headboard, turning a razor over in his hands. "So what are you, the ghost of suicide future?"

"I'm pretty sure that's an oxymoron," said Chase. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing a lab coat, his hair back to how it had been when House had first hired him.

"This isn't about you, you know," House said.

"I know."

"And it has nothing to do with the people in those letters, either." He looked down at the razor, and muttered, "That was a bad idea. I should burn them."

"Don't."

"You think I'm taking the easy way out, too?"

"I don't think there's anything easy about this."

"I suppose you're going to tell me there's people here who care about me."

"You don't need me to tell you that."

"You're in my head, I don't need you to fucking tell me anything." Though even as House said it, something flickered in his head - an image of Jack near tears, saying he couldn't stand to lose anyone else. And as if that wasn't bad enough, the stack of letters reminded him that other people would care, too. But Phedre, Helen, Magnus... they'd be fine. And so would Jack and Logan. If the world could keep spinning without Chase and the Doctor and countless others who had disappeared, then it could sure as hell keep spinning without him.

"He loves you," said Chase.

"Shut the fuck up," said House.

There were other ways to do this. Better ways. But here on the island? He wished he had a bathtub here. This was going to take longer. It's why he'd taken the belladonna first. Still, it wouldn't be very long. He knew what he was doing.

He looked up, and Chase was still there.

"I don't want you to see this," House said, feeling stupid, to a hallucination.

"Be neat about it," said Chase. "Someone is going to have to find you."

House waited until he didn't feel anymore like there were eyes on him. It wasn't Vicodin and hookers he was after. It was just... away. Anything but the island. Anything but more of this. Anything but growing old, just more useless and more in pain.

He was a doctor, he knew how to slit his wrists.

It was excruciatingly painful, and he was almost grateful for that.

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In the days after the nightmare that was supposed to be a fall celebration, I kept mostly to myself, too tired and disturbed to go out for more than essentials, but that wore thin and I was determined to get out and see to my friends. I had not been the only one affected by the horrors of that day, and I knew that wallowing in my own pain would do nothing to help the island at large. I was most concerned about Greg. I had not seen him before the manifestations began, and now that it was over, I owed him a visit. He had lost much in the recent days and I was a poor friend for not paying my official condolences sooner.

I checked the clinic first and not finding him there, I headed to his home. As I was at the compound, I picked up a basket of things we might share. Knocking on his door, I sighed when there was no answer. I could have sworn that I had heard movement inside, perhaps even a voice and I knocked again, calling out, "Greg, please, may I come in? I've missed you."

There was nothing and I pushed open the door and stepped inside, blinking as my eyes adjusted to the dim light. What I saw chilled me to the core and sent my mind racing back to my youth and the deaths of my mentor and foster brother. Dropping the basket I carried, I ran to the bed and the bloodied mess of my friend. "Blessed Elua, please, Greg, don't leave me." I looked around frantically, remembering the lessons the very man bleeding in front of me had drilled into my memory. Remembering the lessons I'd learned on far too many battlefields.

Time had seemed to slow drastically, so House did not know how long it had been. Except that it could not have been very long at all, because he was still conscious.

"Phedre." His voice sounded breathless and strained, like every syllable was an effort.

Why did it have to be her. She was the person he'd been most trying not to think about.

"It's okay, Phedre." The pain was starting to slip away as he got so very tired. "My leg doesn't hurt."

"No, this is not okay, please, Greg, keep talking to me." I worked as fast as I could, picking up the very blade he'd used to rip apart a pillow covering to use as tourniquets and bandages. I tried not to think what my failure would mean, and pulled all the knowledge he'd given me, and others from my world before. He needed to be in the clinic. Now, but he wasn't and I had not the strength to carry him there, nor the time to go bring someone forth.

And I did not want to think of what would happen should I leave him alone again.

I needed a suture kit to close the arteries he'd severed, try to stabilize him, but I did know know if he still had any in his home. I tied the knots and looked around. "Please, please, tell me where you put your bag, Greg, tell me how to save you. I'm begging you."

House could hear her, but she seemed very far away. Vaguely he thought that this wasn't how it should have gone, that it was so much worse now, because she was going to think she might have been able to save him.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled. "Don't, Phedre, love, don't..."

"No! I am not losing anyone else here! Not today." I didn't know it at the time, but at some point I'd begun to pray. Childhood rhymes, wordless pleas, all tumbled from my terrified lips as I searched for his medical bag in cabinets and under his bed.

Eventually I cried out, "Please, someone help me!" I did not even know to whom I was pleading, but my hand finally clutched the item I searched for and I cried in relief.

House just wanted it to be over, but even as he felt himself start to slip towards unconsciousness, he was feeling incredible regret that Phedre was here, that she was trying, that he was hurting her...

"It's not you," he said, and then was repeating it over and over. "Not you, I'm sorry, it's not you..."

Jack heard the screams coming from the direction of House's place and hurried over, Sugar at his heels. It was Phedre's voice, he could tell, and she sounded panicked. He rushed in without a word and first saw her...then House...then the blood.

"Oh God, what did he do?" he asked as he rushed forward to help however he could.

House thought he heard Jack's voice, and when he tried to focus his attention on the doorway, the figure coalesced into something familiar. He groaned.

It occurred to him that he could try to rip off the tourniquets that Phedre had just applied, but he didn't think he'd be very successful. It wouldn't matter anyway. It would just be slower this way.

Why couldn't they have just waited? Why did they have to find him? It would have been easier on everyone...

"Not about you," he mumbled again, only this time it was for Jack's benefit. "Sorry you had to..." And then he finally drifted out of consciousness.

"He cut himself, that's what he did. I need you to watch his... his..." Words failed me for a moment and I forced myself to take a deep breath as I pulled the suture kit and bandages out of the bag. I had been on battlefields before, this was no different. I needed to calm myself as best I could. "Watch his heart-beat. I need to try and get some stitches in him so that we can buy ourselves more time to get him to the clinic."

Once there, I could pass him off to one of the fully trained physicians, I knew all the rudiments, but was not one of them yet. I knew once the stitches were in, I needed to loosen the tourniquets for a moment, lest the blood in his arms go completely cold. I also knew that if he lost too much more blood, his heart would still. "He will need fluids in his body soon, but I fear it's too far and he will bleed to much if I do not do something here."

"Oh shit, Greg," Jack said, scrambling to the man's side. He tried to stay out of Phedre's way since she clearly seemed to have the triage element under control. Jack felt for House's heartbeat and tried desperately to look past the copious amount of blood.

"Greg? Greg..." he said, but House was out cold. Cold...cold all over. Jack imagined he could feel the life slipping from him drop by drop.

"Do you have a... a radio? Something to contact the clinic with? Perhaps they can send someone or something to assist us in getting him there?" I worked as quickly as I dared, tying each suture, moving to the next, thanking Greg for the endless hours he'd made me spend practicing. With one arm complete, I moved tot he next, crawling onto the bed, not caring that blood began t soak me as well as he.

Small details stuck out, the knowledge that he'd need a new mattress and bed. Clothing. He'd need help, watching, I dared not consider that we would not be able to save him.

"Not anymore. When I was on the ITF..." he said, thinking hard in an attempt to keep the panic at bay.

"And the nearest call box is next to the second clinic. We might as well try to move him ourselves. We could use his blanket like a stretcher if you can get him stabilized. Do you think you can carry him that far? It's not far. Over the creek. We can cut through the jungle...there are hunting trails..."

"I can do what I need to do." I had had been so far. I finished the stitches in his second arm and loosened the tourniquets. There was some blood, welling between the stitches, but not a significant amount. I swiftly added a few more sutures, and bandaged the arms.

"We need to go now, and swiftly. He is as good as I can make him."

Jack nodded and tore a blanket from the bed. Spreading it on the floor only made it bloody, but it allowed him the opportunity to lift House's heavy frame and pull him onto the center.

"I'll take the head. I'll try to bear most of the weight. Let's get to the clinic. They'll be able to patch him up better and the ambulance can take him to the compound when he's stable."

Jack couldn't afford to entertain the idea that House might die. He couldn't commit suicide- he just couldn't. Why would he? Why?

"Let's go..."

I tossed Greg's medical bag on the make-shift stretcher and we headed out. It was a trip I wished time and time I could forget, but I feared that so long as I lived, the weight in my hands, the pull in my shoulders, the pallid look of my friend's skin would haunt me. But still, the journey passed as journeys did and we finally entered the clinic calling for assistance.

It was only by luck that Helen was in the clinic today because she'd been cutting her hours in order to prepare for the baby coming but with disappearances and Halloween, she'd had to make herself more available.

When she heard Phedre's voice, she rushed out and paled when she saw who the patient was. Greg.

"Dear God," she gasped, then inclined her head toward one of the exam tables. "We'll need to transfuse him. Has he taken anything?"

I had been trained from childhood to recall the smallest details, and even in my panic I had not lost the skill entirely. Closing my eyes, I took a few breaths as I reconstructed the interior of Greg's home, seen in swift glances as I entered and again as I was looking for his medical bag. There was precious little to see, scattered papers, the detritus of a bachelor's home, and something else... "Tea, there was a teacup out and empty, but I know not what was in it. I could not afford to stop and check if it had something other than tea inside."

With that, I stood back, allowing the physician to work.

"Are either of you a match for his blood type? We'll need to transfuse him sooner rather than later and I would rather not waste time testing if I don't have to," Helen said, looking to both Phedre and Jack. "I'm going to run with the assumption he hasn't taken anything that will complicate matters and hope for the best."

In truth, she wanted to know why but that was a question best left for when Greg was on the mend again.

"I'm O neg. I can donate...I've done it before," Jack said. It was something to do, some way to help fix this. He couldn't stand by and just watch Greg die. The very thought made him ill.

He didn't hesitate even a moment. Jack looked around for a place to sit even as he peeled off his shirt to give Magnus access to any vein she wanted.

"Just tell me what to do. Don't let him die..."

"I can help...." From habit, I moved to the drawers and shelves to get the things Helen would need to set up the transfusion. I had spent time enough in the clinic to know where things were and what they were for. I just had not the authority to use them herself and yet, I needed to do something, anything to help.

I could not give my blood to Greg, but I could help the Doctor in any way I could.

"Have a seat and stay calm, if you can. Phedre, could you get the supplies for me? I'd rather not leave Greg if I don't have to," Helen said, taking a look at the wounds while she had a moment. It seemed so senseless, though Helen too had been in this position.

"I think we have a good shot. You got him to me quickly. If the bastard dies on me...well. We're not considering the possibility." Once she had the supplies in hand, she stuck Jack and Greg each in turn. Direct transfusion would simply be fastest.

"If you know of anyone else who might be able to donate, we could have a spare. Otherwise, I'll make do with just you, Jack."

[I modded a little to move things, feel free to ping me to change anything.]

"I don't know anyone else. But I'm fine. I can do this, as much as you need," he said. He knew he might need a trasfusion too if he had to give too much but right now that wasn't his concern. Right now all that mattered was saving Greg.

It had been so long since he'd done this. Jack sat back and relaxed, letting his eyes fall closed and his mind drift back, back to when he'd done just this to save Gwen's life. It had been so dire, just like this now. And he'd done it without a second thought.

"Do you really think he'll make it?" he asked, sounding oddly small and uncertain.

"I think there's a good chance, provided we transfuse him quickly. I think you found him before things were too badly gone," Helen said, assessing Greg critically for a moment.

"At least, he'd better make it. I'm naming this child after him, in part, and he'd better be around to deliver him."

[[OOC: Phedre now?]]

I hurried to provide Helen all the assistance she needed, silently and without error. I felt a familiar calm come over me, the kind that came with a detachment. Later, when I had tome to actually think about all of this, I may fall to pieces, but for now, there was only the work.

"Do you need to re-stitch the wounds? I was in such a hurry they may be a mess, Doctor. I can get the suture kits, I know where they are."

They saved him, of course.

When he woke up, he wasn't as surprised as maybe he should have been. He was in the clinic, his wrists were bandaged, and he felt like utter shit.

He opened his eyes just enough to see Phedre in a nearby chair, not turned toward him at the moment, but her entire body filled with tension. And on a nearby hospital bed - Jack. Recovering, House guessed, from a blood transfusion. And he heard the light strains of Helen's voice from across the clinic. It was in that moment, even so soon, that he decided that he would not try again.

As soon as they saw him awake, they were going to grill him. Why could he do this, how could he be so selfish, why, why, why? He decided that he had no intention of answering. They were going to force him into therapy, he imagined. That was going to be bad enough. The last thing he wanted was to face up to his... friends, on top of that.

He closed his eyes again, not really to deal with any of it yet. He might have decided not to try again - not to put anyone through this again, at least now while they were still here - but that didn't mean that he was happy. It didn't mean there wasn't a big part of him that wished he had succeeded. He still didn't want to be here. But he would live with that.

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