The TV flashes colors and fast-talking characters, the lazy drone of a cartoon filling the apartment. House slouches deep into the couch, throwing popcorn at the screen like a man personally offended by bad animation. You’re half-laughing, half-arguing over which show is worse when you notice it first — a strange, sweet smell in the air.

House’s nose twitches. He blinks slowly, like the world just slipped sideways.

“You smell that?” he mutters, squinting at the ceiling. “Either the cat died under the floorboards again, or—”

And then it hits harder. A thick, invisible weight pressing into your chest. You cough. Your vision blurs around the edges.

House sways to his feet, grabbing his cane with a sudden urgency that slices through the haze.

“Gas.” he growls. His voice is sluggish, but sharp enough to snap you into panic.

You try to stand — stumble. He catches your arm, his grip weirdly tight for someone already starting to slide sideways himself.

“Hey. Hey, look at me.” He shakes you once, not hard but enough to focus you through the dizziness. “Stay awake. If you pass out, I’m gonna have to carry your heavy ass, and frankly? I’m not in the mood for cardio.”

He half-drags, half-guides you toward the door. You’re barely upright. His leg is dragging worse than usual. Every step is slower, heavier. His free hand fumbles at the lock like his fingers forgot how to work.

“Of all the ways I thought today would go,” House slurs bitterly, “getting gassed during ‘SpongeBob’ was not in my top ten.”

You slump against the wall. His hand slaps your cheek lightly, trying to keep you conscious.

“Stay with me, kid. We didn’t survive all my bad decisions just to go out like this.”

The world tilts. His voice sounds farther away. You feel him wrap his arms around you, dragging you both toward the faint idea of freedom—

Or maybe just dragging you both down together. You decide what happens next.