ticcyyy: (Default)
ticcyyy ([personal profile] ticcyyy) wrote2008-11-28 03:02 am
Entry tags:


title: Somnolence
characters/pairings: House, House/Thirteen, House/Amber
words: 1,088
rating: PG-13
notes: Well, I don't know about you, but I have always been bothered by the distinct lack of anything that came from House being shot. Last Resort made me think about that fact again. So, I wrote a quick fic. Not my usual style. Very stream of consciousness. But hopefully it works?

summary: This is what you dream about.

by Ticcy

alpha waves

It's the last thing you see in your mind before you close your eyes.

Moriarty. Jason. Gun. Gun in your face. Right in your face. At your chest. In your face again. Right there. So close, so real, you almost think it is. Thirteen. Gun. Thirteen's dying. She's dying. You're going to die. You're dying. You're bleeding. From your neck. Your stomach. Faces everywhere, everywhere. Faces you know. Cameron, Chase, Foreman. Wilson. Faces you wish you could forget. Jason. Moriarty. Gun. Gun in your face. Faces you need to remember because they need you. Thirteen. She's dying. You need to save her. You need to. You have to because she can't save herself. Thirteen. Cuddy. Cuddy. Oh god, you're bleeding, you're going to bleed to death.

Hypnic jerk. A violent one. You startle awake.

No. It's not real. It was real. But it's not now. You're safe, you tell yourself. You're safe, Greg. You're safe. It's okay.

You turn over onto your side, pull the covers up over your shoulders, snuggle your head into the pillow, close your eyes.

You're okay. You're going to be okay.

sleep spindles & K-complexes

You're dead. You can't move. A strong smell of blood.


Or is it Thirteen's?

It's all over your hands.

There's Amber. Staring at you. Still. Silent. Knowing. You stare back at her.

Are you dead? You must be. Maybe the blood on your hands is hers.

Amber, you say, but no sound comes out. She doesn't even blink. She just keeps staring at you. Staring. Staring. Right into your heart. Into your mind. Right into that very spot where guilt still eats away at you like acid.

I'm sorry, you silently say. I'm so sorry.

It's too late for that, Amber silently replies.

She starts to fade. You reach out for her. But she's gone. Thirteen takes her place. Staring at you. Standing alone. Holding herself. Afraid. She looks so small and fragile. She looks terrified.

You hold your hand out to her. Covered in blood. Stay with me, you silently plead.

Thirteen shakes her head. Everybody dies, House.

And then she's gone.

delta waves

You're back on the bus. The white bus. Naked. Ashamed. Guilty. Alone.

Why are you here?

You look down at your hands. They're still covered in blood. Dripping off your fingertips, smeared over your palms, down your wrists. Why am I here?

Hey, you.

You look up. Moriarty. He's standing in the aisle. Gun pointed at you. From a distance at first. He seems so far away, you feel like you're looking at him down a tunnel.

And then he's right in front of you. Right there. You're staring right down the barrel of the gun. Sweat on your forehead. Heart going into tachycardia. You're not dead. But you will be. Any second now.

Moriarty smiles. Squeezes the trigger slowly. So slowly. You're going to witness your own death in slow motion, heart beat by heart beat. Here it comes. Here it comes. You squeeze your eyes shut because you know what's going to happen next. Here it comes.

And then he vanishes. Gone. As though he was never there.

You open your eyes. Confused. You're still on the bus. Blood still dripping off your hands. Thirteen? Where is she? You need to save her.

Hey, you.

You turn your head the other way.

Jason. Weak. Pale. Almost skeletal. Pointing a gun at you.

Forget her. You need to save me, Jason silently says. So much silence. So silent, it's deafening. Like white noise.

You want to reply. You go to open your mouth, and realise your mouth is gone. It's gone. Closed up. Sealed. You can't cry out for help now. You can't call out for anyone to save you.

Suddenly, Jason is right in front of you. Gun pointed right in your face. He's sweating. Breathing raggedly. He's angry, desperate, he's going to kill you.

That's okay. You're sick of living. You're sick of being alive.

Wait a minute. Didn't you just want to plead for your life? Yes? No? What do you want, Greg? What do you want?

I don't know.

You look down at your hands again. Dripping with blood. Didn't Shakespeare write something to do with bloody spots never leaving the hands of the guilty? Driven to insanity, weren't they? Out, damned spot.

You look back up. You draw in a sharp breath. So sharp, it hurts. You realise your mouth is there again. You can scream out for help now if you want to. If you want to.

Do you want to?

The gun is right at your forehead. Cold steel. Cold. So cold. Cold as death.

You squeeze your eyes shut again. This is it.

I don't want to die.

Yes, you do.

No, I don't.

Yes. You do. You're just too chicken shit to go through with it.

Please. Don't..

Die for something. Or live for nothing.

You snap your eyes open again. Jason's vanished. You're alone. You look back down to your hands. They're clean. But you can still feel the guilt soaked into your palms. Heavy. Thick.

Hey, you.

You look up again.


She nods towards the bus exit. Get off the bus.

You shake your head. It doesn't hurt here. Nothing matters here. You're sick of everything mattering, regardless how much you try to make everything not matter. You're sick of fighting. You're sick of guilt and pain.

Amber stares you. Then she turns her eyes towards the windows on your side of the bus. You follow her gaze and look out.

Thirteen. She's waiting for you outside. She's waiting for you to get off the bus.

You stand. You walk down the aisle, through Amber as she fades away into an invisible ghost again. You step out into the light, so bright it's blinding. Thirteen approaches you. She takes your hand.

Look out, she says.

You turn your head. You see the barrel of a gun right in your face. The trigger is squeezed.


end of sleep phase

You jerk awake. Drenched in sweat. Heart racing. Sheets tangled around your legs. You look around wildly, frantic, terrified.

Your room, your realise. You're in your room. You just had a bad dream. That was all. A bad dream.

You slump back to the pillow and swallow. Mouth dry. So dry. Pulse thundering in your head. Every muscle trembling slightly with the rush of adrenalin.

You're okay. You're okay, Greg. You're safe.

You turn your head on the pillow to look at the clock. 4.12AM. The dream is already fading from your mind, leaving only fragments behind. You close your eyes and drew in a deep breath. You're okay. You're safe from harm. Everything is behind you now.

You're going to be okay.


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