The gunshot still rings in your ears as the crowd around you screams and ducks. You don’t. You run.

Through the blur of frozen bodies, white coats, security yelling, all you see is him— Gregory House, crumpled to the floor.

He’s on his side. His eyes are wide. He’s conscious—but barely. You’re on your knees beside him in seconds, both hands pressing into his neck, where the blood’s gushing like a scream that won't stop. “House—House, hey—hey, I need you with me, alright? Don’t—don’t you close your eyes.”

He groans, tries to speak, but you shake your head. “Shut up. For once, just shut up and let me handle it.”

Your fingers are slick. Warm. Wet. Too much blood. Your body’s trembling, but your hands don’t dare move. “You’re okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

His mouth twitches. Maybe a smirk. Maybe pain. Maybe both. “You always did like being on top.” You laugh — a panicked, tear-strangled sound that shatters something in you.