"Greg, you have to come in. You're getting soaked," Blythe pleaded from under the protection of her umbrella. Shaking his head apathetically just as he had the first one hundred and fifty times she'd asked him, House remained standing in front of Wilson's newly dug grave.

"Come on honey. It's no use," John whispered, pulling Blythe back inside by her shoulders.

The rain falling was archetypically perfect: sheets of heavy, pounding water cut into slices by jagged lightening only to fall to the ground with astonishing speed. Drenched to the bone, House felt nothing besides completely indescribable pain. It was as though his entire body was suffering the agony normally localized in his thigh in response to the maudlin events of the day. Leaning heavily on his cane, a nearly pointless action as it sunk into the muddied ground, House allowed his eyes for the first time to leave the dead space in front of him and focus on the freshly overturned dirt.

"You bastard," he whispered, before turning and walking back inside, where hundreds of faces, familiar and unfamiliar alike, all bore the same expression: complete pity. Biting his lip to keep from decapitating the entire room instantly, House hobbled into a corner, hoping to melt into the woodwork. However, the squish made by his shoes, squeal by his cane, and steady drip of his clothing made him anything but unobvious as he leaned against the wall, closing his eyes and fumbling in his pocket for his Vicodin. Tugging the ever present bottle from its watery confines, House was suddenly struck with the irony of what he was about to do. The bottle tumbled from his hand and hit the floor, the top exploding off and the white pills scattering everywhere. Silence fell over the room and stares turned to House as if to ask "Well, what now?"

Stacy knew what was coming, even if no one else did, including House. Running across the room, slipping slightly on the water House had tracked in, she reached him just as he began to cry. Deep, broken sobs racked his chest as she wrapped her arms around his waist and slid down onto the floor, holding him as he wailed. The crowd milled around uncomfortably before Mrs. Wilson, tears streaming down her face, ushered them into the next room, leaving only Chase, Foreman, Cameron, and Cuddy alone in the room.

"Oh God," House cried against Stacy's chest, unable to stop his pitiful show of grief. Curling his fingers around Stacy's forearms, he continued to sob, his agony washing over the others in the room.

Cameron had latched onto Chase, tears rolling as he stroked her back silently. Foreman had draped an arm around Cuddy, unsure of what to do when she had started crying.

"Come on," Foreman whispered softly, guiding the others out, leaving Stacy and House alone.

"Greg," she started, only to be interrupted by more sobs. "God Greg, this isn't your fault." Allowing his chin to raise, House shook his head 'yes'. "He was depressed, Greg. This has nothing to do with you." Stacy knew that attempting to assuage his guilt was completely useless. What's more, she wasn't entirely sure she believed what she was saying.

"He's... how could he... dammit!" House growled, suddenly angry. Slamming his fist against the wall, he wiped his eyes and stood up with Stacy's help.

"Greg, calm do..." Stacy started, her pleas cut off by the smack of House's hand across her porcelain cheek. Touching her heated flesh gently, Stacy bit her lip.

"You bastard, I'll kill you," Mark roared. Stacy wheeled around as he crossed the room, raising her hand.

"No, Mark, it's okay. Just go," she said hurriedly, planting herself in between the two men.

"I will not..."

"Go!" Breathing heavily, Mark spun on his heel and returned to the other room. Turning back to House, Stacy could no longer hold back the tears.

"I miss him too, Greg, I really do and I can't imagine what you're going through, but you can't blame this on yourself. You'll never be able to live if you do."

"There's a reason why guilt kills," he stated plainly, his voice still thick with emotion. Placing a gentle hand on House's cheek, Stacy smiled sadly.

"Oh Greg... you can't self destruct now, not after all this time. What would Jimmy say?"

Staring at Stacy, his tears mingling with the water still dripping from his hair, House nodded, resolved to his own grief.

"He'd probably say something along the lines of 'your morosity is impending on your duties as a physician. You have to feel what your patients are feeling!'" Stacy smiled.

"Something like that."

"I loved him."

"I know."

"Did he?"

Stacy mouthed wordlessly, before sighing.

"I think so." House nodded.

"I need to go talk to his family," he said, before walking away, leaving Stacy standing alone, now thoroughly soaked.

It was Cameron who found him. Lying on the floor of his office, still dressed in his clothes from the funeral, House's eyes were closed, his leg bent in an odd direction, implying he had fallen. Screaming out in terror and disgust, Cameron had wretched and taken off down the hall to Cuddy's office. The coroner said that he died of a massive stroke, but the rest of the team knew the truth.

Gregory House died of a broken heart.