Revenge
House is sitting in his office.
Well, not his personal office, but the conference room. Perched in a chair he shifted over from the glass top conference table, he's got his feet on the floor, forearms resting against his knees, head bowed slightly.
His eyes are focused on the spot on his carpet. Not any spot, but the spot. The bloodstain on the carpet. It's not red anymore, but a dark brown, with the edges ringed with white cleaner.
They'd tried to clean it, Cameron told him, but obviously it didn't work.
Why couldn't they just have replaced the carpeting? Maybe with tile, or linoleu. So the next time some crazy bastard with a gun takes a shot at him, they can just wipe his blood off the floor and everyone can move on. It's a horribly morbid thought, and it makes him shudder. He taps his fingertips against each other, as he tilts his head to study the spot.
The bullet in his stomach went through his bowel and came out the back, lodging in a wall behind the bookshelf. His blood splattered across the whiteboard, and the ground, as he fell back. He remembers the look in Moriarty's eyes. Remembers the fuzzy flashes of pain, remembers feeling the blood on the floor. Remembers hearing the second shot.
After that, it's nothing. But it's not hard to figure out. The bullet entered his neck, exiting out the back after clipping his jugular. He's lucky he can walk -- and isn't paralyzed or a vegetable -- but he can still feel the pain inside. The recovery wasn't easy. Getting out of the habit of Vicodin all the time. Working on the muscles in his leg. Making it back to a hundred percent.
He's in the best shape of his life.
And he has his shooter to thank for that. Is thanking the right thing, though, when he's feeling the pain coming back? He thinks it's soreness. He's praying it's soreness. It has to be soreness. He's been running eight miles, skateboarding, doing everything he wants to do. He's planning on playing some lacrosse that weekend, a pickup match at a local park. They can take Jackson out, just for a few hours to the park. He's almost three weeks old.
He has the shooter to thank for that.
But Moriarty is dead. He won't mention the details surrounding it, but he knows that the man that shot him, was killed. He hasn't asked how Jake did it. He doesn't want to know. His revenge wasn't given by his own hand, but it was given. And that's what matters to him. Someone paid for his own injustice. That's what matters.
So he'll move on. He won't attempt to find someone to punish for the wounds given to him. He's not like that.
Instead, House just stares at the spot on the carpet. Maybe that's Moriarty's revenge. Even after his death, even after getting revenge for his wife's death by shooting the doctor who fucked it all up, he's mocking him. The blood on the carpet. His blood on the carpet.
He stands up, and walks out of the room. He doesn't want to look at that anymore.
Dr. Greg House
House
Word Count: 524
Well, not his personal office, but the conference room. Perched in a chair he shifted over from the glass top conference table, he's got his feet on the floor, forearms resting against his knees, head bowed slightly.
His eyes are focused on the spot on his carpet. Not any spot, but the spot. The bloodstain on the carpet. It's not red anymore, but a dark brown, with the edges ringed with white cleaner.
They'd tried to clean it, Cameron told him, but obviously it didn't work.
Why couldn't they just have replaced the carpeting? Maybe with tile, or linoleu. So the next time some crazy bastard with a gun takes a shot at him, they can just wipe his blood off the floor and everyone can move on. It's a horribly morbid thought, and it makes him shudder. He taps his fingertips against each other, as he tilts his head to study the spot.
The bullet in his stomach went through his bowel and came out the back, lodging in a wall behind the bookshelf. His blood splattered across the whiteboard, and the ground, as he fell back. He remembers the look in Moriarty's eyes. Remembers the fuzzy flashes of pain, remembers feeling the blood on the floor. Remembers hearing the second shot.
After that, it's nothing. But it's not hard to figure out. The bullet entered his neck, exiting out the back after clipping his jugular. He's lucky he can walk -- and isn't paralyzed or a vegetable -- but he can still feel the pain inside. The recovery wasn't easy. Getting out of the habit of Vicodin all the time. Working on the muscles in his leg. Making it back to a hundred percent.
He's in the best shape of his life.
And he has his shooter to thank for that. Is thanking the right thing, though, when he's feeling the pain coming back? He thinks it's soreness. He's praying it's soreness. It has to be soreness. He's been running eight miles, skateboarding, doing everything he wants to do. He's planning on playing some lacrosse that weekend, a pickup match at a local park. They can take Jackson out, just for a few hours to the park. He's almost three weeks old.
He has the shooter to thank for that.
But Moriarty is dead. He won't mention the details surrounding it, but he knows that the man that shot him, was killed. He hasn't asked how Jake did it. He doesn't want to know. His revenge wasn't given by his own hand, but it was given. And that's what matters to him. Someone paid for his own injustice. That's what matters.
So he'll move on. He won't attempt to find someone to punish for the wounds given to him. He's not like that.
Instead, House just stares at the spot on the carpet. Maybe that's Moriarty's revenge. Even after his death, even after getting revenge for his wife's death by shooting the doctor who fucked it all up, he's mocking him. The blood on the carpet. His blood on the carpet.
He stands up, and walks out of the room. He doesn't want to look at that anymore.
Dr. Greg House
House
Word Count: 524