Disclaimer: I do not own House or any of the characters from the series.

A/N: Thank you for the reviews. By the way, this story happens to be my first fanfic ever. I'd really appreciate any constructive criticism you guys have to offer. Thanks for reading!

The next thing House felt was Cameron's body being thrown against his chest, and his arms involuntarily wrapped around her. Tightly. His fingertips curled into her back and her protruding shoulder, gripping what he was so sure he'd lost. He had made his decision, and the repercussions were now in play. Rachel's eyes had bravely given him the answer he needed: she was willing to take Cameron's place. All he had to do was say the words.

"Take her," House pointed a sloppy finger at the sixteen-year-old, clutching his cane and refusing to look his young 'victim' in the eyes. He looked at the ground, at the rain puddle gathering near his feet.

This sin would not be forgiven.

He was abominable, and he would be damned for this: for handing a kid to a criminal. But the choice had been left to him, and he wanted Cameron. He wanted Cameron over Rachel any day. He was selfish, and he didn't care. Because he always would be.

"Don't look," House pleaded and fought with Cameron's struggling body. "Don't turn around," he whispered, his voice raspy and desperate from the cold.

"Why?" she muffled the words in his shirt. "It won't make it go away." A bitter sob was stifled and Cameron gave up trying to look. House's grip was too tight. She slumped against him, finding in vain that his shirt was warm against her face. "She's going to die, House."

"She's going to die anyway, Cameron." It was the one line, he knew, that could justify his actions. Years down the road, the same line would be valid, and the body of youth-once-named-Rachel would lie content to be burden-free in the grave. It was the right choice, despite how unthinkable, and he could do nothing but watch.

Over Cameron's weeping shoulder, he witnessed Rachel being stuffed into the car. Into his car. Gun at her head, bruising hands at her side, her eyes were still just as hazel. Even in the dark, yes, her eyes were hazel. And they tore through House's intentions, his shame, and it chilled him to the bone. He was destined to watch this very scene play across his head - dance a wicked dance on his soul and up his spine - from now on: every time he closed his eyes, every time he saw a teenager, every time Cameron closed her eyes, and every time he saw the guilt when she reopened them. A sixteen-year-old had taken her place.

The last living glimpse of Rachel came as she threw her hands out to stop the car door from slamming, from sealing her certain death. "Change the world for me!" she called out toward the sobbing huddle of Cameron in House's arms. Then the stone was rolled over the tomb and the car sped out of sight.

"You already changed the world for me," House admitted under his breath, instinctively holding Cameron closer. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was reassurance. Maybe it was just the cold.

"He's going to rape her; he's going to kill her," Cameron cried softly against House's chest. She couldn't fathom the fear in Rachel's heart at that moment.

"You can't fix this," House whispered back. In his own error of selfishness, he breathed in the smell of her, and released it slowly. Then he breathed it in again. His lungs inflated with the mango of her shampoo, the magic of her touch, and the plaguing hint of automobile exhaust in the atmosphere. Burning gasoline and burning rubber. Rachel was gone, the gangster was gone, and House's '65 Corvette was . . . gone.

Only he and Cameron were left, clinging to one another in the sudden, ghostly silence of the night, willing away their sins in synchrony. Bodies trembling and hearts fluttering, blood rushing at a rapid pace. Minutes drizzled by in the dark, and neither made a move to pull away.

Cameron dug her nails into House's back, to make up for the fingertips she felt curled against her own back She hated him and his screwed-up priorities. He had traded her life for that of a sixteen-year-old, and had given Cameron no choice in the matter. He . . . saved her life, and she loved him. And she hated him! She dug her nails deeper, wishing him to flinch under the pain.

He felt her punishment. And he curled his own fingers tighter against the agonizing warmth of her back. He told himself it was merely right, to hold her. But he needed her. She was his vindication. He needed her presence to show him just how much it was worth. He had no apology when he held her. He'd do it again in a heartbeat.

"Why are you out here?" House's tone was rough and ragged in his chest. It rumbled against Cameron's buried face.

She pulled away just enough to speak. Her soft cheeks, tear-streaked and remorseful, peered pitifully up at House. "Rachel's father called." She tried to be strong, but her voice caught in her throat upon hearing herself say the words.

"What?" he gaped, pulling out of her arms completely.

Cameron took the blow of his absence in stride and tried, against the odds, to steady herself. "Dr. Lomack, in Radiology - he's an old acquaintance of Rachel's father . . ." She sniffled and straightened her body as a chill crept from the back of her neck to her toes. "Dr. Lomack saw Rachel leaving the clinic yesterday, and he was shocked. Rachel ran away from home three years ago, and nobody's seen her since. Dr. Lomack called her father, and her father called the hospital."

Dr. House waited for her to continue, but she never did. She seemed to be on the verge of a breakdown, and as much as he wanted to hold her, he needed the information more. "And? How does that equate to you ending up in the ghetto?"

"I was looking for you, so you could take the call. But Dr. Foreman told me you'd just left. He told me you were on your way to see Rachel with some test results. So I ran down to the parking garage, and you were pulling out when I got there. I hopped in my car and followed you."

"You've been behind me all this time?" He feigned irritation, but the sweeping emotion was disbelief.

She gave him a bashful nod, then hesitated. "Well, no. I lost you when you turned into this . . . neighborhood," she timidly looked around. "It took me fifteen minutes to realize where you had turned, and then another fifteen to find you car." She couldn't believe they were discussing this now. A girl was dying. Were they so calloused and indifferent, that life was worth only the silence they'd given, and no more?

"So where's your car?"

"Stolen."

House figured as much. The thug wouldn't have left the two of them here if Cameron's car was still part of the picture. "When?" he lowered his voice, a certain softness returning.

"When he," she gestured toward the street where the Corvette had been, "grabbed me. He took my keys and threw them to his friend on the other side of the road, where my car was."

"Why were you out of your car?" House scolded. But he knew the answer. "To look for me . . ." It wasn't a question. His face dropped to the ground and his shoulder dropped of all resolve. This was no puzzle. This was a nightmare - and he wasn't waking up.

There was one thing he knew: Dr. Allison Cameron was safe. She was his stronghold, his one constant in this horrible algebra equation, of endless variables and infinite possibilities. Cameron was here, he could touch her, he could see her. He would see her tomorrow.

Fuck tomorrow.

If there's one thing he's learned, it's that tomorrow holds no promise. His arms disregarded his pride and pulled her back to him. He held on for dear life, for dear old death at the door - at someone's door. But not his. And not hers. Not tonight.

The End.