You knock. Once. Twice. Nothing.

The light under the door is on, and that should be comforting, but it isn’t. Not when you’ve already called him five times today. Not when Cuddy asked where the hell he was and you didn’t have an answer.

You try his phone again. Straight to voicemail.

When you finally dig out the spare key he gave you months ago—“for emergencies, not for dropping by with soup and feelings”—you brace yourself. But not for this.

The apartment is silent except for the hiss of static from the TV. The blinds are drawn. There’s a faint smell of something chemical and bitter.

You don’t even call out his name. Something inside you already knows.

He’s on the couch, half-fallen to one side, head resting awkwardly against the arm. One leg hangs off. His cane is across the room. His pills—Vicodin, and more—are scattered like teeth on the floor.

Your voice breaks the second you touch him.

“House—House. Wake up. Come on. Please—”

His skin is cold. His breathing is shallow. You can’t feel a pulse at first and you scream his name until your own throat hurts. You’re already calling 911. You’re already crying. You don’t even realize you’ve dropped to your knees beside him.

He didn’t mean for you to see this.

That much is obvious.

But he did it anyway.