Author's Note: Inspired by The Death of Superman comics (for some of the images), The Nail JLA series of comics (for some of the inspiration), the unaired sides for the finale, Superman for All Seasons and Faulkner's As I Lay Dying (for POV and chapter inspiration.) A lot of angst, I know, but I love this story dearly. House and all the songs used throughout are not mine.

Part I: And the Three Men I Admire Most: The Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost

Dear lady, can you hear the wind blow,

And did you know

Your stairway lies on the whispering wind.

And as we wind on down the road

Our shadows taller than our soul.

--Led Zeppelin, "Stairway to Heaven"

Time is broken into many pieces. Past, present, future, A.D., B.C., etc. Narcissistic people tend to think that their loved ones will look at their deaths and always remember what life was like before and what life was like after. So, we're given here a catalyst and the amount of time that has passed from that inciting incident. There are seconds, hours, days, weeks, months, and years—all told by different people all affected by the same event.

Here's to time.

""""""

The joke goes: a horse walks into a bar. Bartender asks "why the long face?"

It's not supposed to go: a doctor walks into a bar. Bartender asks her "can you help him?"

But it's going like that right now. There's a bloody mess known as Greg House lying on the floor next to some bar stools and broken bottles. There's a man being restrained in a corner and apparently someone has called an ambulance and the cops (although I'm not sure if this is true.)

I rush to House slipping off my jacket as I do. My purse is thrown into the same pile with my jacket as I kneel next to him and take his pulse.

"Dr. House! Can you hear me?"

There is no response and through the blood I can see that his eyes are closed. I mutter several curses and am deeply pissed off about the fact that House could be so stupid to get into a fight with a lowly piece of bar scum.

"Get me some towels. Napkins, anything," I command to the assembled peoples, hoping one of them is not drunk and will listen to my commands.

I see a wad of napkins stuck in my face. A hooker holds them out to me.

"Thanks."

I take them and start cleaning up some of the blood. I don't know how bad the internal injuries are, but I can tell that House has gotten himself into a terrible mess this time.

I should have met him somewhere else. I told him this bar this time. It's been a mere thirty-six seconds since I've walked in and already I'm blaming myself. I do that a lot—blame myself. When there's no one else to blame and blame needs a place to rest, I'm the one who places it on herself.

House mumbles something, but it's incoherent. I bend my head to listen.

"Blood…"

He trails off and I suddenly find a dozen sarcastic comments running through my mind. I lean down to his ear and whisper not one of them.

"You taught me well."

I want to say other things, but I don't think House even knows that it's me treating him. I could be Chase, Foreman, or Wilson, but instead he got me, Cameron. He knows that I like to heal damaged people—that's my "hobby", purpose, or whatever other designation can be given to it. I wish someone else were here to help; there's only so much I can do with bar napkins.

"How many times did he get hit?" I ask the prostitute.

"Oh, he got bashed up quite a bit. I don't know—as many as the moron could land before the bartender pulled him off. The guy smacked him with a couple of empty bottles, too," she tells me with a worried look on her face.

"Shit," I say as I notice House's dissent back into unconsciousness.

"Did he get hit in the head?" I ask with urgency in my voice.

"I didn't see all of the fight, but I think so."

Why do humans beat one another? It's not guns that kill people—people kill people. What the hell is wrong with us? Why do we go into flying fits of rage and take that rage out on someone sitting next to us at a bar?

"How'd he get himself in this mess?" I ask as I try my best to wipe up some of the quickly caking blood.

"I didn't want to go with scumbag over there, and he made him let me go. And then he got beat up by scummy," she tells me.

Billy don't be a hero, don't be a fool with your life. Lines from songs always float back to me at the strangest times. Whenever someone does something unnecessarily foolish because it's the "right" thing to do, I can't help but remember the lines from that old, old song.

"Where's the damn ambulance?" I yell more out of frustration than anything else.

I wait patiently for the sound of sirens, and check House's pulse again. It's slowing; this is not good.

"Here, Miss? Can you do me a favor? I need you to call 'Wilson' and 'Cuddy' and tell them to meet me at the hospital. Just tell them Cameron says it's an emergency," I tell the hooker and hand her my cell phone.

I watch as she presses some buttons to get to the address book and dials Wilson's number first.

I don't listen to her conversation; I'm too busy praying for House. Atheism sucks at a time like this.

She moves onto Cuddy and I hear the sirens of a fast-moving ambulance. I hope that these people can save his life, but a bit of doubt is creeping into my mind. Pessimism and optimism are interchangeable states of mind.

The EMTs rush in a do their job. They strap House onto a stretcher and move him into the ambulance. The hooker hands me my phone back and I smile at her.

"Thanks for your help."

"What's his name?" She asks.

"House. Dr. Greg House," I tell her and follow the EMTs into the ambulance.

""""""

Confined spaces are my least favorite places. I always feel in the way. Being in the ambulance is no different. I feel like I'm a bother even if I am a doctor. I'm offering my services to these people but they're turning them down, asking me just to hold his hand.

"Severe trauma to the head. There's definitely going to need some surgery done," one EMT tells the other.

I hold his hand and wish that I wasn't enjoying it. He's dying. It looks like he's dying. He might be all right, but God does he look horrible.

And a sudden thought strikes me.

Where's his cane?

"I-I need to go back. I have to get his cane."

The EMTs ignore me, but the thought stays with me as we speed to the hospital. I need his cane.

His hand is blood-soaked and his knuckles are cracked from repeatedly punching the man. House never struck me as a real good fighter. He's scrappy, sure, but he'd get his ass kicked nevertheless.

The ambulance ride is ages and eons longer than it normally would be if the patient were not House. My doctor-like demeanor has stayed with me all night, but is slowly starting to dissolve as we pull into the emergency room entrance. The cane…

The doors are opened and they roll House out quickly. They start running into the hospital and the only thing I can do is clutch the gurney and run with them.

We barrel down through the doors and the first person I see is Wilson. Cuddy is standing farther down the hall in her scrubs, prepped in the ER. She's not an ER doctor, but she's dean of medicine and she needs to be in there with House. Someone has to.

It is Wilson who pulls me away from the gurney as it is placed into the room. Cuddy looks at me.

"It'll be okay," she whispers before rushing in behind House's bleeding figure.

Wilson and I make our way back to the lobby. He has his arm around my shoulder and it is comforting. He guides me into the lobby and sits down with me.

"The cane—it's still at the bar," I whimper into his shoulder. My hands cover my eyes. It's been a long night and I'm trying to block out any more terrors.

"He has plenty of others," Wilson informs me.

"But…the cane. We've got to get the cane."

It's an odd mantra, but I repeat it until he finally relents.

"Fine. We'll take my car. On the way, you're going to call Foreman and I'm going to call Stacy. Somebody needs to be here," he tells me.

So we leave in his car. During the car ride I call Foreman and tell him House is in the ER and he needs to get down there as soon as he can. Foreman doesn't ask why, but comes. He's a good guy, Foreman is.

I know he will call Chase so I don't bother. Wilson talks to Stacy, and informs me that she is on her way. When we get to the bar, yellow police tape lines the outside. There are people loitering around. Wilson and I get out of the car and he approaches one of the officers.

"Hi, I'm Dr. James Wilson and this is my colleague, Dr. Allison Cameron. Our fellow colleague, Dr. Greg House was assaulted in here tonight. We were wondering if you found his cane at the scene?"

The officer looks at us.

"No, I'm sorry, we didn't."

I want to collapse, but I don't. When we reach the car and are safely inside, Wilson grabs my hand.

"It'll be okay."

It's a promise and he never lifts his eyes from the road on the drive back to the hospital.

We arrive before any of the others and we take the seats we left a few minutes earlier. By the time Foreman arrives, Wilson's pacing has started.

I pick at my fingernails and place the blame on myself—

House must live.