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The beeping of the flatline was deafening, piercing through House's ears and muting his every thought.
Chase opened the door to the patient room, stopping in his tracks immediately.
House saw his fingers first tightening around the papers in his hand and then let go. They rustled to the floor, sprawling out in a wide circle, numbers and words and a diagnosis hidden somewhere in there, lying uselessly on the ground.
Too late. Two minutes too late.
"Go home," House said quietly, pressing his cane down against the floor as if he could break through it if the tried hard enough.
"I'm sorry," Chase mumbled before turning on his heels and striding down the hall, no doubt to tell the others of their failure.
Another minute passed before House finally slapped the beeping monitor to shut it off, the silence ringing in his ears almost as loud as the flatline had.
Two minutes too late.
Two minutes too late and a patient who singed a DNR. Enforced by Cuddy. Nothing he could do.
Nothing.
House pushed himself up from the seat, leaning heavily on his cane as he stumbled out of the room, waving a nurse over to take care of the now deceased young woman.
He walked aimlessly around the floor until the pain in his thigh forced him to finally stop at Wilson's door.
Without knocking, House pushed the door open and entered. It was past sunset anyway and Wilson was no longer meeting patients anyway.
"Come on in," Wilson said without looking up from his paperwork, "Not like I have stuff to do anyway."
House limped over towards the couch, letting himself fall onto it less than gracefully.
"How's the patient?", Wilson asked, putting the pen down and throwing House a glance.
"Dead."
The silence that followed stretched just a moment too long.
"Sorry about that," Wilson grumbled.
"It's fine," House answered, kneading his fingers together to stop the shaking.
"You sure?", Wilson asked, turning over the pen in his hands.
"Yup. I'm fine. The team's fine. Everyone's fine. Except the patient," House rambled, thumping his cane against the floor a few times.
Wilson didn't answer. Just kept staring at House with that odd expression on his face.
"I'm fine," House insisted, knuckles going white around the top of the cane.
"Then why do your hands shake?", Wilson asked, putting the pen back down.
House refused to answer to that, simply opting to stare at the cane and the faint tremor in his fingers, ignoring the way his eyes started to burn.
This was stupid. He never cared about patients that much. He never did.
This was stupid.