[It's a moment before Beckett can adequately focus on anything besides cold shock and nausea. He half staggers against the wall, catching himself by instinct rather than going to his knees or worse. He registers that House is still taunting him, but can't rise to it anymore, doesn't care - it has now firmly sunk in that he has other concerns. Namely the real possibility of death. Final death.

He's afraid. It's very sudden, and leaves little room for other feelings.]

No - leave it, let me - I'll do it. [He tries to pull at Clayton's arm and get him away from the exceptionally unpleasant business of cleanup. He doesn't sound guilty or embarrassed, just - set. Others shouldn't clean up his messes, literal or figurative. He must stick to that, at least, because it's all he can do. With the rest, he will clearly have to trust others. Trust them. And the thought chokes him almost as much as the illness.]

All right. You were right. [He talks to both of them. His voice has gone quiet. Not hissing, just a very tightly drawn restraint. It's sadly obvious that he still wants nothing so much as to bolt, like a wild animal cornered when in pain.] I'm sick. I don't know what to do about it. I would - rather not die. Not like this.