Negative II

It was a night like all the others. Empty

of everything save memory. He thought

he'd got to the other side of things.

- Raymond Carver, 'Listening'

After all the talking of the last 24 hours, stepping into the silence of House's apartment is a relief.

He lets himself in with his key. He doesn't have to see to select it from his keyring; his fingers can pick it out day or night, no light required. It's right between his own apartment key and the one to his office.

He wonders if this will be the last time he will ever use it.

Of course it won't.

Blythe will want to come here. That's what he spent the last few hours on – talking her out of coming straight here, sleeping here.

He finally talked her into letting him book a hotel for her.

She can't stay here.

Even he doesn't know what he'll find inside.

He hasn't told Blythe that he is ill. With a bit of luck, he won't have to. She will be too wrapped up in grief and in the details of her son's death.

House's death.

The door closes behind him.

He's spent the day separated from everyone else by a thin veil. It's a veil of compassion, care, worry and, mostly, talk – constant talk. Foreman, Adams, Nolan, Park, Chase. They're all talking to make him forget that his world was blown up last night.

The veil finally falls away.

The apartment is silent. So beautifully silent.

It smells empty even though it's full of things. House's things.

Books. Records. Music.

The piano.

There's a fine layer of dust on everything.

Everywhere except the piano.

He stands in the middle of the room, doesn't know what to do. Where to start. All around him is silence.

He doesn't want to turn on the lights. He's waited until dusk to come. Partly, because it took him a while to gather enough courage. And partly because he didn't want to meet anyone on the way who he might have to talk to. He can't talk now. He's done enough talking. He's all talked out.

Besides, what would he say?

There will be more talk once Blythe gets here. There will be arrangements to make. More talking.

At least he won't have to worry about cleaning the fridge. There's never anything in it that could go off.

He laughs out loud at the thought.

And then he can't stop.

He's doubled over with laughter and holds himself up on the piano.

Until the laughter turns into tears.

And then he can't stop.

He sits on the floor of an apartment full of House's absence.

But when he looks up he sees House sitting at the piano, just like he's seen him sit there and play a thousand times over the years.

He's playing now. But there is no music. The apartment is silent.

He finally drags himself up and into the bedroom. He's come here for a reason. He owes it to House to make sure his mother doesn't find anything embarrassing.

Like what?

Like porn. Like drugs.

He knows House has both in here. He doesn't want Blythe to find either.

To be truthful, he just doesn't want to have to answer her questions if she did. More talk.

He's all talked out.

No pills in the bedroom. But there are open drawers. Typical House; he is so careless and lazy.

Was.

Was.

He closes the drawers and resists running his hands over all those wild t-shirts nobody's ever going to wear again.

But maybe Blythe will donate the clothes to charity.

Someone there will have to wash and iron them. That'll be the first time ever those clothes see an iron, he thinks as he heads back to the living room, laughing despite the lump in his throat that's been getting bigger and bigger since he arrived.

Bathroom. There will be pills stashed away there.

But all he finds is some Tylenol. Nothing else. It's as if this place was cleaned out of meds.

House hasn't asked him for a script in some time, he now remembers.

He could figure out why, he's sure there's a reason for it. One that makes sense. But he can't think of it, and he's as tired of thinking as he is of talking.

He finally ends up on the piano bench.

There's so much to do. So much to think of.

He's so tired.

And alone. So fucking alone.

He shouldn't have to do this by himself.

He's sick and he's tired, and he's got five months to live. There should be someone here to help him.

Someone.

Someone should have thought of this before taking the easy way out.

Instead he's been left sitting here on his own, alone with this.

With everything.

As fucking usual.

He sees an empty bottle on the piano, grabs it and throws it, as hard as he can, to shatter against a bookshelf. The silence fractures into a thousand pieces on impact. There are shards everywhere.

The lump in his throat finally dissolves into tears and anger.

And a sob rips through the silence.

Who will clean this up?

He doesn't care.

There will be cleaners. Movers.

People.

In fact, he will make arrangements for cleaners and storage in the morning.

He'll be damned if Blythe gets the piano. Not this. She'll end up selling it. She won't know what else to do with it.

But what would he do with it? He doesn't even know what he will do with himself now.

He can't bear the idea of someone else's hands where House's have been only a short while ago. Days? Hours? He doesn't know when House was here last. He had a case. Did he come home to change maybe?

He'll have to look into piano storage; he's sure there are special conditions that need to be met. Temperature. Humidity.

House would know.

House.

He can still see the flames and smell the smoke. The smoke has been like a curtain between himself and the rest of the world; it makes everything look hazy and sound off. All the talking. All those well-meaning hands on his shoulder.

Even here he can still smell the smoke, see House disappearing behind a wall of flames and falling debris. He wonders if he will forever carry the sight and smell of last night with him.

For the rest of his life.

Five months.

Desperate for a distraction, his eyes fall on the couch; that old, comfortable couch which carries the impressions of both their backsides from so many TV marathons. Trash talking. Drinking. Comfortable silences.

He drags himself away from the piano, carefully steps around the glass that's all over the floor and stretches out on the couch, fitting his hip into his own impression and his shoulder into House's, just as he's done so many times before. He wishes he could just go to sleep here one final time.

But there is no time. There is so much to do.

He still doesn't know why he really came here. Making things easier for Blythe is a lame excuse, and House would laugh if he knew.

He came here to escape and to… and to what? To see if he can find House here? One last place that hasn't been touched, hasn't been dissected? Now he can really hear House laughing.

Yes. All of this and more.

But all he's found is House's absence in an already dark and silent place - spaces where he used to be, things he used to do. Like black holes in the darkness.

There is nothing left here.

He picks himself up from the couch.

At the door, he stops to take one last look around. He will come back but it won't be the same. It never will be again.

He quietly closes the door behind himself and goes out to his car. He has been here a while. The night is already changing into a new day.