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Forged in Fire
by Gena Fisher
Title: Forged in Fire
Author: Gena Fisher
Rating: PG
Pair: House-Wilson friendship
Disclaimer: Tried to blackmail Fox for the rights but lost the negatives in a poker game.
Summary: House confronts his past.
Notes: Just another ficlet. Nothing special.
Forged in Fire
James Wilson glanced up at the room number - 621. A nurse had given him the message that the patient in this room had asked to see him. He had no idea who the patient was, only that he was an older man under the care of Dr. Sheth. Straightening his tie and running a hand through his hair, Wilson stepped into the room. The moment he realized who the man was James Wilson felt a fist of dread clench itself tightly around his heart. No, he thought, this can't be happening. Not now, not when Greg is finally learning to cope.
"Ah, Dr. House," Cuddy said, glaring at her employee, "I thought I would find you here."
House snapped off his small TV, slipping into a pocket. "I'm doing my clinic hours."
"Technically you're clinic hours should involve you seeing clinic patients, not hiding in an exam room watching soap operas," she pointed out.
"They should?" House scratched his chin. "Next time I guess I better read what I'm signing. I haven't donated my organs or anything without knowing, have I?"
"No one would want your organs," Cuddy said with a smile. "Here, your partner in crime asked me to give you this." She tossed an envelope into his lap. House picked it up; his name was scrawled on the front in Wilson's familiar handwriting. Why would Wilson send him a note? A prickle of unease crawled down his spine but House opened it without hesitation. He felt the blood drain from his face and heard the sound of his heart echoing strangely inside his head.
"Dr. House?" Alarmed, Cuddy moved to his side. "Greg? Greg, are you alright?"
House pushed himself to his feet. "I'm fine," he snapped but when he made his way from the exam room and down the hallway Dr. Cuddy couldn't help but notice the way he kept on hand on the wall, as if the world had suddenly tilted on its axis.
~~~~~~~~~
"I am sick and tired of this!" House shouted. Cameron froze, eyes darting to Foreman and Chase but they seemed as amazed as she was. "Why the hell are you bothering me with this? Do you think I can fix it? Well," he snarled, "I won't! I can't!" And with that he wiped the books off his desk, sending them crashing to the floor. The sound seemed to fuel his rage, his phone hit the floor an instant later with the sound of plastic cracking then sat there humming like a child listening to its parents fight. Swinging his cane, he took out the lamp behind his desk and batted the trash can across the room. He was panting, chest heaving so much that he seemed to sway as he looked for anything else to vent his rage upon. House's eye fell on the rolodex, it thudded against wall, professional confetti celebrating its freedom. His lacrosse ball ricocheted off the chair and knocked a picture askew before rolling to a stop under the chair. Not satisfied with his destruction, House snatched up his pyramid shaped paperweight and slammed it on the desktop. It was the sound of shattering glass which broke the spell they had all been under and finally got them moving. Cameron hurried to the door, Chase and Foreman swept along in her wake but she stopped on the threshold, held there by Wilson's stern glance in their direction. With merely a look he forced them motionless while he stopped the angry destruction taking place around him. He caught House by the wrist, drawing his hand up away from the broken glass. Blood dripped from House's palm, bright scarlet drops which House didn't even seem to notice.
Wilson pulled a crisp white handkerchief form his pocket, carefully wrapping it around the wound, all the time holding House together. "Dr. Wilson?" Cameron questioned uneasily. House continued to pant, his normally pallid skin was flushed and shiny with sweat.
"It's okay," Wilson said, never taking his eyes off House. "He's fine." Dr. House didn't look fine, the pristine handkerchief had a growing scarlet spot in the middle of it.
"Is there anything I can do?"
Wilson didn't answer for a moment and the three of them started forward. "No. He doesn't want anyone here right now," Wilson said. They had no choice but to retreat back into the DM office and wait. Wilson always seemed to know what House was thinking and feeling so they'd have to trust him on this.
Wilson waited until he heard the snick of the glass doors closing before he spoke again. "Greg, you do realize that was a stupid thing to do, don't you?"
"Really?" House just looked at him. "Maybe I can gouge the other one and pass myself off as suffering from stigmata."
"It might save Cuddy the trouble of crucifying you," Wilson mused. He moved closer, checking the gash. The blood has slowed but he could see the wound was fairly deep. "You're going to need stitches."
House pulled his hand free and sank down into his chair. "James, what is it you want me to do?"
"Just, talk to him," Wilson said. He moved around the desk to crouch in front of House. He knew he was asking a lot. It had been a long time since House had actively participated in the world. "Please, Greg," he said quietly and receiving nor response added, "for me." House closed his eyes, pain evident in every line on his face.
"Alright," House whispered.
Wilson reached into House's jacket pocket and retrieved the Vicodin bottle. He shook out a single pill and pressed it into House's right hand. "Let's get you down to the clinic." He helped House to his feet, feeling as if he were leading his friend to the gallows. Cameron and the others watched them leave, their eyes betraying curiosity and no small amount of surprise. Wilson didn't blame them, House was rarely out of control. He wielded his anger like a scalpel, a thin blade that could cut as deeply as he wished. Scorn, disdain, contempt, House used them all with precision but this outburst and the passive acceptance which followed seemed totally out of character. Unless you knew the reason.
Wilson commandeered exam room two and stitched House's palm himself. It wasn't as deep as he had feared but House's reaction caused him a great deal. "Too tight?"
House looked down at the bandage encircling his left hand. "Tell me doc, will I be able to play the piano?" Wilson gave him a warning look and House shrugged. "Humor is my coping mechanism, you know."
"You're mechanism must be low on oil," Wilson said, "because that joke is fifty years old." He regarded his friend for a moment. "Greg, I know this is asking a lot, but please, he wants to see you."
"Have you given any thought to what I might want, James?"
Wilson nodded slowly. "Yes, but you need to see this through." He waited but House had nothing to say to that. "He's in room 621." Greg nodded. Wilson rose from the chair and gave House's shoulder a squeeze as he left the room. He knew Greg would go, he'd promised and House never lied - at least not to other people.
**************
The sixth floor always felt quiet. Maybe it was something about the design of the place. There could be a birthday party going on in one of the rooms and still the floor would seem deserted and still. House leaned against the wall outside the elevator, eyes closed. He was tired. Every muscle from his lower back to his toes ached. His left hand throbbed in time to the beating of his heart and he wasn't entirely certain he might not throw up at any moment. What a wreck he'd become. A broken down man with nothing in his life but his job. Not exactly how he'd envisioned his future all those years ago. Once he'd been the fresh-faced, lab coated, young doctor. His stethoscope looped dashingly around his neck, his eyes bright, his gait strong and sure. House felt a contemptuous smile which curl his lip and pushed it away. The time to confront the past had arrived.
Room 621 was on the far end of the hall and when House pushed the door open he fumbled with the latch because of his gashed left palm and the cane clutched in his right. The old man in the bed looked up, his eyes locked with House's and Greg felt his face heat with embarrassment. "Gregory," the old man croaked. His reedy voice matched his wasted and gaunt body. He looked mummified, as if the life were being slowly sucked out of him, except for his eyes. All the life which seemed to have drained from his body had pooled in his eyes and those bore into House with keen awareness. "James said - he would persuade you," he wheezed.
"Did he now," House drawled.
"Thank you - for granting a dying man's - last wish." A trembling hand rose, directing House to the chair at the beside. "Sit - my boy."
House would have liked to defy the feeble command but too many hours on his feet wandering the halls had taken its toll on him. He limped to the chair and lowered himself. "Well Doctor Mason, to what do I owe the pleasure of seeing you again. It is still Doctor Mason isn't it?" House asked. "Or has a nasty malpractice suit stripped you of your license?" He had the satisfaction of seeing Mason flinch at that but it did little to stop his anger.
"I deserve that, Greg," Mason said quietly. "After what happened, I deserve everything you feel towards me."
"You do?" Greg smiled, "So you deserve my hatred? You deserve my contempt? My anger? That's nice to know Bill, because I've spent seven long years worrying that I might be misplacing all those feelings." He gripped his cane, leaning over it so that he could stare directly into Mason's face. "Of course, the first year doesn't really count. I was too busy relearning how to walk and that second year," he shook his head, "it kind of got away from me when I found out I wasn't going to get any better. Since then, well, between the Vicodin and the depression, time kinda lost its meaning for me, Bill."
"Greg," Mason said, "I'm sorry. I am sorry."
"That's great," House said and pushed himself to his feet. He stood balanced on his cane. "It's really great, Bill."
"If I could change it," Mason whispered, what strength he'd had fading in the face of House's anger, "If I could change what happened, Greg, if only I could. Forgive me."
"Forgive you?" House repeated, eyes squeezed shut and head titled to the side. "Doesn't work that way, Bill," he said. He opened his eyes and pinned Mason with a dark look. "I can't forgive you for taking away everything I loved, Mason. This isn't how I'm suppose to be." House touched his damaged thigh, then brought his hand up, pressing it hard against his chest. "I'm never going to forget what happened and I'm never going to let it happen to someone else. So you can die knowing that you changed me and that I've become the best just so no one has to lose what I did but I am never going to forgive you." He turned, limping from the room without looking back.
Wilson was waiting in the hall for him. James didn't even try to hide the pain in his eyes. House looked at him and together they walked away from room 621 and the man dying inside it. It didn't end there. Wilson drove him home and helped him take off his jacket and his shoes and watched him lie down on his bed. House dreamed he was running, the sky above blazed blue and the grass beneath his feet was green and he ran for what seemed like miles. He knew he couldn't run forever but he could see the hospital just at the bottom of a long hill. He started down it, agile, light, moving quickly, but halfway down he could feel a cramp gathering in his right thigh. Mason stood on the side of the track, smiling, motioning him on. House wanted to stop but the doctor just waved him away. He ran a bit further, trying to ignore it but it grew worse, becoming an searing pain that robbed him of breath and made his heart pound against his ribs. He was almost to the bottom when it felt as if his leg were being burned with a blowtorch. He could feel the skin charring, the muscle beneath curling with heat, bone calcifying, breaking like glass when he fell. He screamed, clutching at his thigh, trying to hold it together.
James was there. He rushed into the room, shirt unbuttoned and hanging loose, hair plastered to one side of his head. He looked scared. He stayed beside him for a long time, not saying anything, just sitting there after Greg had taken another pain pill and laid back down. And House knew that no matter what he had lost in the past and no matter what he did in the future, Mason had given him a gift. Through his own ignorance Mason had crafted a weapon, he had taken a good doctor, a man with a brilliant mind and forged him into a doctor who would not give up, a doctor who would do whatever it took to find an answer. He would never forgive Mason but he would thank him.
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of Fox Television, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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