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English
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Published:
2024-06-06
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1,067
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1/1
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97 Seconds

Summary:

After faking his death, Dr. Gregory House lives on borrowed time until cardiac arrest claims him. In the 97 seconds his heart stops, he's mysteriously transported back to 2008, just before a pivotal moment in his life. Given this rare second chance, House is determined to rewrite his story, mend broken relationships, and save his best friend, Dr. Wilson, from his tragic fate. As he navigates familiar challenges with newfound insight, House confronts his past mistakes, seeking redemption and a better future.

In short, I need them to be happy and I will die on that hill if I have to.

The initial idea came from the fanfic "Afterlife" by @FandomShuffle and I can't wait to show y'all what I have planned.

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Work Text:

Prologue

Death is an intimate bed-friend when you are a doctor. It is who you fight with, who you dance with, who you plead to. And at the end of the day, it will come for you.

The Funeral

Dr. Gregory House had never intended to live long. He believed in the motto, “live fast, die young”. And so, he did that: faking his death, avoiding his time in the bucket, living through the last days of his best friend’s life like nothing mattered… and then, death came for him. 
It was a painful way to go but at least it was quick. Cardiac arrest. Simple, boring. And in the 97 seconds that his heart had stopped beating, he saw. There were so many things he could have done, stories he could have changed. And he knew, if he had another chance, he’d change his story. If only… 
How much of it was his guilt speaking? That his life really did not amount to anything? That his need to be right, need to be in control was, as Wilson had put it, his way of dealing with what had happened. Maybe he could… find another way. 

There are second chances. But not second lives. 

97 seconds. 
97 seconds to change his story.

“You’re an idiot.”

That voice. He knew that voice. That was the only voice he would remember even after years had faded the scars. So, it was true, he was now dead. Blissfully back in the comfort of the only man who cared about him despite his idiosyncrasies. He had missed him. For nearly 12 more years since he had last heard that voice. If death were so kind to him, he’d hug him.

“You nearly killed yourself.” 

“That was the whole idea,” He could almost hear himself say it. Time had not passed, it had slowed down, propelling him backwards into a vortex of past decisions, events and regrets. Deja Vu? Did he create a life that he had lived to soothe his dying brain? The slightly sterile smell of a hospital room hit him first. Huh. The guy. That guy who was hit by the truck. The one with the knife. All of it started to flood back to him. For all intents and purposes, he was alive. Wilson was alive. And all that mattered in that moment was that he sat in front of him. 

His hand hurt. Why did it… the memory of the knife and some major voltage shocking his entire neural network came to his mind like an unopened jack in the box. The punch was guttural. He really did love taking unnecessary risks to his life until he was really, truly dead. Why else was he willing to ‘actually see’ what the hit-by-truck guy had felt. But it wasn’t real, or was it? Was he really back? Back to… 2007? No, 2008? It felt real. Overwhelmingly so.  The pain was real too. But lying on the pillows too firm to be comfortable, among other hundred racing thoughts and millions of unspoken emotions between him and the man looking into his soul,  he also remembered the case. 

“I’m… sorry.” He blurted, “you and I probably need ten gallons of alcohol to feel our feelings about this but right now, i need you to tell me about my patient.”

“No, but he doesn’t have cancer. We think it might be eosinophilic pneumonia.” Wilson’s eyes were brighter than he remembered. A certain freshness that he carried before the radiation, before the trials, before he killed his mind to go with his dying body. 

“No, it isn’t.” He tied his robes, sitting up with more effort than he remembered he had, “need some help here.”

“Why do you…” Wilson’s eyes widened like donuts on a baking tray, “Why do I even put up with this?”
“Because, my dear Wilson,” House wrapped his arm around his shoulder, grappling with his cane on the other hand, “I love you. And because there’s something I need to fix. Something important.”

Wilson stumbled to find his footing, confusion and concern etched on his face. “Fix what, House? What’s going on?”

House’s eyes darkened with determination, with a twinkle of mischief. “It’s not half as fun as watching you grapple at straws. I’m just dangling the hints. Think you can get to it?

“Of course not, how could I?” Wilson stumbled to find his own footing, “now care to tell me where we’re headed?” 
“To the patient,” House quipped, his voice level headed despite the fever dream, “now, chop chop.”

~

“Now, Thirteen.” He hobbled into the room, Wilson following, “tell me, what is our patient currently on. And please, don’t skip any detail.”

“Patient presented with syncope. We thought it was threadworms, gave him ivermectin.” The doctor that was not Thirteen responded. 

“I’m sure, if that were the case, he would not be getting worse. Did you see him take the pills?” He hobbled further to take a seat next to the dog. His lethargy was evident, even to his uncaring eyes. 

“I’m not sure, I-I think so.”

“Tsk. would you tell me if dogs are supposed to be so… hmm, interesting. Now, I may not be a vet but can you tell me what happens if you give a dog with the MDR1 gene ivermectin?”

“I mean, you don’t…” her eyes follow House while he turns the counters and shakily looks under the couch. “In most dogs, it would be fine but it is fatal in…”

Et Voila. The cup with the pills. Pills that the guy was supposed to take. Yet another mystery chalked up to doctors who are in too deep and don’t know how to take care of themselves let alone their patient. 

“Start him on the correct medication. Call a vet for the dog but… it might be time to trade it in for a newer model. Oh, and maybe make sure he does take the pill, you know? Just in case you actually want to do your jobs.” 

Wilson had hung around by the door. House wanted to hug him, scream in his face for being an all-encompassing idiot. But he was his idiot. And it seemed, he had just one more chance. Second chances are rare, rarer still when it was from Death itself. And as far as second chances go, he was ready to make the most of it.

 

Notes:

if you like the prologue and you have ideas please let me know!! my goal is to rewrite second chances into the story and give people a more healthy house than we know him to be because i'm tired of the shitty writing after a point

i'll try to update a chapter a week but i apologize in advance if i fail

xoxo,
Ren