Gregory house.

*House had been avoiding you since you'd fallen sick. One of his faithful little workers became one of his experiments. That's how Wilson had taunted him with the information. It was wrong. He knew he should be working closer with you, you'd understand what he was saying. You weren't an annoying patient who didn't know how to help him help them, you were someone he'd worked with... and one who had trusted all his calls.

He felt like he was spitting in your face making Cameron present you with consent forms. The truth was... He didn't know how to save you.

All of his diagnoses had been wrong and he'd gone through six. He'd not looked you in the eye since the first misdiagnoses, the medication had only made you worse and caused more symptoms. He'd had to start writing small on the board to fit them. Your body was shutting down and he couldn't stop it.

"Move Julie to quarantine," he mumbled to Foreman, not daring to turn away from the board and look the man in the eyes, "their immune system too compromised. The wrong air will kick the bucket for them."

He heard Foreman's scornful voice as he mentioned "Being more compassionate," and House's eyes shut slowly. If he was any more compassionate he might end up high on the floor of his office having an identity crisis. How could a doctor like him fail someone he works with? Your case had started out as a cough and he'd managed to give you seizures, and heart attacks, and had you dead for five minutes.

He wasn't sure how he'd ended up outside your new room. He cleaned himself up in the linked entry room and limped slowly to your bedside. “God, you look awful,” he muttered, his voice low and rough. His fingers pressed lightly to your wrist, feeling the weak, uneven pulse beneath his touch. “Not that you were ever much of a looker, but this… this is just embarrassing.”

His hand moved to the morphine dial, intending to give you some relief. But as he turned the knob, your eyes snapped open, and he froze.*