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Until Death Do Us Part
by Mel
It was hard to pick out the hunched form of Dr. Wilson from the commotion in front of the ER. More victims of the multiple-vehicle accident were arriving, flooding it with other doctors and nurses as they rushed to stabilize some of the patients, then to tend to the lesser-hurt ones. In other rooms, crash-carts were being rolled in and times of death were being recorded, but Wilson seemed to be noticing none of this. He was frozen, pale, and unheeded in his seat. For once he was lost in the bustle of the hospital. For once he was foreign to it, submerged in it, drowning in it.
Yet Wilson had been one of the luckier ones, and House was grateful for the sense of relief this caused him, though it still didn't diminish his worry and concern. Wilson was silent and unmoving from where he sat. Other patched-up patients were around him, but he was the only one on that particular bench, huddled in its corner, taking up as small a space as possible. His head was in his hands too, hiding his face. He wasn't on duty: his lab coat was nowhere in sight, neither was a tie.
This was supposed to be Wilson's day off.
House approached his friend, tapping him on the shoe with the end of his cane, startling him back to reality and making him look up. House winced subconsciously. Wilson's eyes were red and tired, his face stricken with grief and pain. There was a bandage on his cheek, matching the larger one taped to his neck, visible because his shirt was unbuttoned a little. Upon further examination, House found that the shirt was splattered in blood- both Wilson's and another's, he theorized.
He held that tortured look longer than he should have. Wilson seemed to be stripped of everything, with nothing to offer. Nothing but his grieving, vulnerable soul. They didn't speak, nor did House want to force Wilson to. It probably would've hurt for his friend to talk like then. Just like it hurt to breathe, hurt to think, hurt to exist. Just like it hurt for House to be there, right in front of him, and Wilson had to look away from the expression in those blue eyes: that honest worry and concern.
House finally sat beside him, his grip on his cane flexing nervously while his other hand found its way around Wilson's shoulders. A comforting gesture. One that Wilson was silently pleading for, and he almost succumbed to his grief completely when it came, but instead he just quietly wept against House's shoulder.
House just continued to give him his comfort and support. He had once told Wilson he cared too much before, but he had never warned that in doing so, he left himself much more vulnerable. Now to have this happen...
House squinted at nothing. Wilson's wife was dead. Her body had been crushed in the accident. Wilson had come away only scratched. It was remarkable, but now Wilson had the heavy burden of grief and guilt. Those were the symptoms, and there were no witty or sarcastic remarks for this. All House could do now was to be there for his friend. That was the cure.
So that's what House did.
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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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