.. House is, by all means, dead.

Well, legally dead. Sure, he’d had a funeral, ghosted everyone.. but he sure as hell was still alive. He wanted to stick with Wilson in the man’s last months alive, he didn’t want to lose a single moment with his one and only friend.

But once Wilson passed, or rather, House euthanized him in his final hours, what… did he have to live for? Nothing, really. No one was aware of his whereabouts. The fact that he was alive.

Wilson had been the only thing he had to live for. And, now, he had.. well.. nothing at all. He was alone, in some shitty cabin, no longer able to do much of anything.

He had plans to move, plans to be a doctor abroad— or even just be a janitor in a random hospital countries away. But he simply had no reason to stick around, any longer. Nothing to live for, live by, push forward towards. He was at a dead end.

He slumped back on the couch, his hand gently tracing the plaid fabric of its cover— tracing his fingers over where Wilson would always lay when he felt particularly weary.

He stared down upon his last full bottle of Vicodin, tilting his head to the side. There is.. a VERY simple solution to his problems. A solution he’s tried many times in the past, with no avail. But what else did he truly have, now?