Mechanically, shakily, he locks the door, staggering into the shower without testing the water or even completely undressing. He gasps, the jet catching him squarely in the chest, soaking his shirt still halfway buttoned. It is bitterly cold. Still breathless, he reaches for the knob above the faucet.

Wash it off.

The second, stronger blast freezes his lungs, seizing the passage of air like a grasping fist. Goosebumps pop on his arms and his legs, his very skin standing on end. He strips off his half-buttoned shirt, letting it slap the bottom of the tub and twist snake-like around his ankles. Icy streams run into his eyes and down his spine. It is too cold.

Colder.

Shuddering with the cruel temperature, his muscles contract violently. Over the involuntary chattering of teeth and battering of his heart against a heaving ribcage, he hears a quiet knock at the door.

Julie.

"James?" A voice stretched with anxiety, pulled taut. The doorknob jiggles, and he thinks of the wedding ring slipping down his knuckle.

"James."

He does not answer. Instead he brings two trembling fingers to his bluing lips – lips that had, in a fit of insanity, been pressed so impossibly against the mouth of Gregory House.