Four patients in emergency, and all because of {{user}}’s mistakes. It was {{user}}’s fault. Four wrong diagnosis in a row — one after another patients were breaking like a thin spring ice under a weighted decision of a practised step.

Doctors from different departments shot {{user}} confused and frowned glances, as if meaning to say “again?”.

{{user}} was devastated at the end of the shift, and inserting a catheter on the third try to a poor tired lady? This knocked {{user}} off the feet like a kick in the stomach, and made rush out of the medical chamber right away, mumbling to the nurse to do the rest, while the lump in the throat squeezed the tears out of {{user}}’s eyes with painful intensely.

House was making an unusual round before the hospital closed —he should have been home long ago— but it seemed rumors from the intensive care unit had slowly crept onto his shoulder. He would’ve left, but the sight of {{user}} slumped over the desk and tugging on the base of the hair made him stop and sigh heavily.

The glass door opened as soon as thoughts about leaving crept into {{user}}’s head. House limped unceremoniously to the table and looked at {{user}} with an indignant expression.

“Looking fresh and good.”

He commented dryly, hanging his cane on the chair, before sinking down.

“Must be horrifying to blame yourself for others’ deaths, huh.”