Disclaimer: I don't own anything. I just do this for fun. House MD belongs to David Shore. The song "24 golpes" (24 blows) belongs to Mikel Erentxun, a Spanish singer (who, by the way, was also fan of House MD.).

Warnings: Spoilers of the series finale. Deathfic and mentions of suicide. This fic contains slash. Physical relationship between men is mentioned, although there is nothing explicit. Don't like it, don't read it.

Author notes: Although this fic was inspired by the song that gives it title, it's not a songfic as lyrics are not part of the fic. However, I've translated the song at the end of the fic in case anyone wants to read it.

It can be read as a sequel of "Yesterday is a wounded animal", although it can also be read as a fic of its own.

One thing I want to share with you is about the possibility or not that House would consider suicide after Wilson's death. I've always thought that that was the only possible ending for House given such scenario, but lately I've been reinforced in my belief by Hugh Laurie's words about House faking his death in a DVD extra for Season 8 DVD: "Wilson is not long for this world, but House is... the implication is that he is probably not long for it either."

Finally, I haven't given up on "Wilson's soul", but I have other plot bunnies popping in my mind and I'm also pretty busy at the moment. So, don't worry I'll end it. Just, it can take more time than I expected between updates.

24 blows

You're a heartless bastard.

He had heard those words so many times that he had already lost count of them.

And, well, the truth was that he was a bastard Literally. His mother's late husband, John House, hadn't been his biological father.

However, as much as he had tried to prove differently for years, he did have a heart.

A heart that beat in his chest. A heart that, against everybody else's beliefs, was capable of feeling emotions. But also a heart that had received too many blows. And every one of those blows had left a scar in it. He had so many scars in that heart that, should he want one, he could make himself a necklace of scars.

And what was happening right then, was going to be the final touch to that necklace.

Wilson was dying. His friend, his lover, his everything was dying. There was nothing he could do about it. The only thing -person- that had really given meaning to his existence was fading away in his arms. He tightened the grip on his Jimmy as if that could prevent his passing away.

He stole a glance to his backpack where John's gun was hidden. A gun loaded with silvery bullets, one of which had his name on it. A bullet to solve the loss of his love. Because, no matter how hard he had always tried to deny it, his heart was as vulnerable as anyone's else to love.

Yes, a gun that Wilson had discovered at the beginning of their trip.

"Why the hell have you brought a fake gun to our trip?"

"Road travelling is dangerous. We have to be able to protect ourselves." he shrugged nonchalant.

"Protect ourselves? With a prop?" Wilson asked disbelievingly.

"Everybody lies. I've always told you that."

"So you plan to make believe the hypothetical people that threaten us that the gun is..." Then, a thought struck Wilson, who narrowed his eyes. "Wait! You! Son of a bitch! I was right back then at Princeton. This gun is real, not a prop, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

Wilson shook his head, exasperated by his friend's deceits, but otherwise, he kept silent throughout. After a moment, though, some thoughts crept into Wilson's mind. A thought that chilled his very soul.

"House, you're not going to use this gun on you after I..." Wilson trailed off, sounding very worried.

House didn't want to lie to his friend, so he shrugged again.

"House don't! Get rid of it!"

"A cripple and a dying guy sleeping in some lousy places? We need protection."

Wilson wasn't able to argue against that. But still...

"Promise me that you are not going to use it to kill yourself." Wilson's voice sounded almost desperate.

Only silence met his plea.

"Promise me, House!"

"I can't make a promise that I don't know if I will be able to keep." House kept his gaze locked to Wilson's, daring his friend to challenge him.

"House. Promise. Me!" Wilson demanded angrily.

"You didn't want to feel pain. Perhaps, I'm tired of being in constant pain." House said, very angry himself. "You didn't want to fight. Perhaps, I don't want to keep fighting. So far, I've respected your wishes. I think I deserve the same."

That had ended the argument, as House had made a valid point and Wilson hadn't been able to come up with a good counter-argument. The gun had been left in the bottom of House's backpack and they had never discussed the issue anymore.

The reality hadn't changed, though, after that argument. Wilson's life was fading away all the same, and that knowledge was scratching at his soul like thousands of razor blades, leaving in their wake more scars than all the other blows together. Thousands of bleeding scars with no hope of ever healing.

Wilson's life was fading in front of House's eyes, as if wanting to take advantage of the shadows of the night, as it would a rider using the darkness to escape.

House looked outside of the window. Anything was better than looking at his friend. It hurt too much.

It was an open night. No clouds in the dark sky. The full moon was shining near the horizon. It should be a beautiful night, but, to House, it wasn't. This was the end of their escape. It was their end. He would be there, comforting Wilson till his last breath and, then... Nothing would matter anymore. The gun, the car, it didn't matter what he intended to use for himself. His own end would be just a flash that would let him leave behind the gale of his emotions.

His emotions... He had them, despite what he had always had tried to convey in front of people. Right then, the two predominant ones in the hurricane raging in his mind were despair and love. Despair because Wilson was dying. Love for the man that was in his arms.

Of course, he wasn't going to acknowledge that love out loud. In fact, as strong as his feelings for Wilson were, he had still to tell him he loved him. He was going to be faithful to his word. He hadn't fought the cancer, so there was no acknowledgement of his feelings.

It didn't matter, however. Because Wilson knew House loved him. Wilson felt the love in his friend's tight embrace, he had felt it in every kiss, every caress or every love-making they had shared. He had also felt it the moment he had realized that House had given everything else up for him. No, it didn't matter that House didn't acknowledge out loud his love for him. It's not what people say, it's what they do his fake cousin had said eight years ago. House had done a lot more for him than anybody else would have ever , House loved him.

With the last of his strength he looked at House and House looked at him and, then, he knew. This was the end.

"Everybody lies, but time is the biggest liar, Wilson," House whispered, the despair clear in his voice. Time, like a spider, had spun its web around them and, suddenly, they had found that the time they had left had already been turned into ashes, as if burned by a dragon's flamed breath. "Time made us think we had a lot of it ahead. But it was a fucking lie. We tried to live the moment... Carpe diem... you know, like in the Dead Poets Society, but the moment was so fucking short..."

The moment House ended speaking, Wilson's body went limp on his arms.

One hour after, House was leaving the motel. Foreman had been called for. He had nothing there anymore. Wilson was gone. He was only leaving behind a bag of chemicals for Wilson's family to bury.

In front of him was the only possible answer to his loss.

24 blows (24 golpes) - Mikel Erentxun

24 blows / in the heart / and a necklace of scars / for the occasion.

24 bullets / in the clip / silvery ammo / for the lack of love.

Life goes away / life goes away / scratching the soul with razor blades / life goes away / life goes away / as a rider in the dark.

24 moons / in the sky / and the open night / at the end of the escape.

Life goes away / life goes away / like a flash after the gale / you can look / you can pay / life goes away / life goes away.

Time spits words of fire / with the dead poets' voice / it is a deceiver / with spider legs and dragon head.

(...)