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They don’t make it out of the office.
House realizes it about thirty seconds after telling them to go clean up.
Foreman reaches the doorway first, hand landing on the frame like he needs it to stay upright.
Then he just… stops. Breathing wrong. Much too fast. Much too shallow.
Thirteen is worse.
She’s wrapped in the blanket Taub gave her, but she’s shivering hard now, fingers curled into the fabric, eyes unfocused again like she’s drifting somewhere far away from the room.
House watches the signs line up. Delayed shock. Of course. Adrenaline crash. Sensory replay. Nervous system overload finally collecting payment.
He sighs sharply.
“Fantastic,” he mutters. Neither reacts.
Taub looks at him. “They’re not okay.”
“Thanks for the diagnosis.”
House pushes himself upright, already moving.
“Sit down,” he orders.
Foreman shakes his head automatically. “I’m fine.”
House taps his cane hard against the floor.
“Wasn’t a suggestion.”
Foreman hesitates. Then sits. Hard. Like his legs gave out permission the moment someone else took responsibility.
Thirteen doesn’t even argue when House guides her back toward the couch. He avoids touching her at first, steering with proximity instead of contact.
She misses the cushion slightly when she sits.
House notices. Coordination slipping. That's bad.
He turns to Taub. “Water. And something with sugar.”
Taub moves immediately. Good. Someone useful.
House crouches in front of Thirteen, ignoring the pang in his leg. There are more important things.
Her pupils are blown wide. Skin pale beneath remaining streaks of diluted blood near her hairline.
She’s somewhere between present and gone.
“Hey,” he says.
No response.
Her hands are shaking uncontrollably now.
House exhales through his nose.
He disappears briefly into the bathroom and returns with a stack of damp paper towels.
He hesitates exactly one second before reaching up. Careful. Clinical.
He wipes a streak of dried blood from her temple. She flinches.
“It’s just water,” he says.
Her eyes finally focus on him. Confusion first. Then finally memory. Her breathing fractures instantly.
House keeps his voice even.
“You’re safe,” he says, like stating lab results. “You're not there anymore.”
Her mouth trembles. Wrong wording. It's too late. Her shoulders start shaking harder.
House keeps cleaning anyway, slow movements, removing blood from her hands, her wrists, under her nails where she missed it.
Something grounding. Something real. It's the least he can do.
Behind him, Foreman suddenly says, voice tight, “I can still smell it.”
House glances back.
Foreman’s standing upright now, staring at his own hands like they betrayed him.
House grabs another towel and tosses it at him.
“Here.”
Foreman scrubs hard. Too hard.
House notices the escalation immediately.
“Not skin removal,” he says. “Just blood.”
Foreman’s hands slow. Barely.
Taub returns with water and a vending machine candy bar already half-opened.
House takes them, presses the bottle into Thirteen’s hands.
“Drink.”
She obeys automatically. Good. Shock patients who can follow commands.
Then it happens. Her breathing stutters. Stops. Starts again as a broken sound. And suddenly she folds forward. But not away. Into him.
Her forehead hits his shoulder, fingers clutching weakly at his sleeve like she didn’t mean to grab him but couldn’t stop.
And she starts crying. Not loud or dramatic. Certainly not pretty. Just quiet, devastated sobs.
House freezes. Every one of his instincts screams retreat. This is a personal space violation. An Emotional Situation. He really needs to abort mission.
He doesn’t move.
Even he knows that pulling away now would be cruel.
So he sits there awkwardly while one of his fellows cries into him (trying not to think about how an other one is dead), his hand hovering uselessly in midair before finally settling, stiff and uncertain, against her upper back.
A single pat. Then another. They're too mechanical. But he leaves his hand there.
“It’s shock,” he mutters. “It's a normal response.”
Her grip tightens.
Behind them, Foreman makes a sharp inhale.
House looks up.
Foreman’s eyes are glassy now, jaw clenched so tight it trembles. He’s losing the fight too.
House gestures vaguely with his cane.
"Sit down again,” he orders.
Foreman moves closer without argument, sitting heavily beside them.
For a moment he just stares forward. Then he drags both hands over his face. And stays there, breathing uneven.
House shifts slightly, allowing Thirteen to lean without falling, his shoulder now acting as anchor more than comfort.
He hates that this is the best thing he can offer. He needs someone else to deal with this. He can barely look after himself.
Minutes pass. No one talks.
House keeps slow circles moving against Thirteen’s back without realizing he’s doing it.
Eventually Foreman says quietly, almost ashamed, “It's our fault.”
House answers immediately.
“No.”
Foreman shakes his head. “He was right there.”
House’s voice sharpens.
“No.”
Silence. Then, quieter: “None of us get hindsight privileges.”
Foreman exhales shakily.
Thirteen’s crying slows, exhaustion replacing it. She doesn’t move away. House lets her stay.
Taub watches from across the room, saying nothing, wisely pretending this isn’t happening.
After a while House speaks again.
“You both need a shower and a change of clothes. You're covered in blood.”
Neither argues. It's progress.
House leans back slightly, trapped under emotional responsibility.
“…You’re getting blood on my jacket,” he adds.
Thirteen lets out a weak, broken scoff against his shoulder.
Good. Alive response. He’ll take it.
House stares at the wall over their heads.
This is all he can do.
Just keeping them upright until the worst passes. And for now, somehow, that’s enough.