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Unclaimed Baggage
by Housepiglet
0700
The alarm sounded, and Wilson opened his eyes. He'd been barely asleep, and he reached for the clock, now, and set it onto `snooze'. Pausing briefly, he realised he felt no less exhausted than he had the night before, and he heaved himself up against the headboard and lay back for a few moments, surveying the room.
It was 4 months since he'd moved out of House's apartment and into the hotel, but this morning it struck him that the place looked just as sterile as it had on the day that he'd moved in. He spent a couple of hours there every night before climbing under the covers and falling asleep in front of the television, but by the time he returned each evening unseen staff had entered in his absence, and eliminated almost every trace of occupation from the room.
Early light was filtering through a gap in the centre of the curtains, but through the thick, double-glazed windows Wilson could hear nothing of the buzz of early traffic that he knew would be building on the street outside. Breathing quietly against his pillows, he was suddenly aware that he could hear nothing at all.
He paused in his survey for a moment, as his eyes reached a sports bag resting on the armchair, beside the window. There were large, glossy photographs of the basement leisure centre attached to the walls of the elevator, and as he'd exchanged his dress suit for a t-shirt and pyjama bottoms the night before it had occurred to him that he could really use some exercise. He'd planned a swim, and he'd actually gathered his swim suit and gym clothes together in readiness, almost excited at the prospect and intending an early start. It seemed now, though, that his enthusiasm had evaporated overnight, and he was no longer able to summon up the energy for the pool. A familiar feeling of guilt passed through him, and he promised himself that he would swim the next morning instead.
The alarm went off again suddenly, and he jumped, reaching quickly for the clock to silence it. Ten past seven. Unwillingly, he dragged the memory of the day's schedule to mind, and examined it. He remembered the Funding Committee meeting at half past eight, and experienced a sudden, small thrill of alarm at the realisation that he'd still not read Cuddy's paper, or Williamson's briefing note. Glancing back towards the table he saw his briefcase, unopened and forgotten where he'd set it down the night before. He briefly considered getting the papers out now, and taking them down to the restaurant to read them over breakfast. Studying the clock, though, he decided against it. He could grab a coffee from the vending machine in the hotel reception, and scan through them when he got to work, instead.
Clock still in hand, he considered the timings further. The journey would take no more than fifteen minutes now that Tritter had returned his car, and he wouldn't need more than ten to take a shower and get dressed. His left hand rose to the back of his head for a moment, and he decided his hair would dry easily along the way. He could skip breakfast, so as long as he was out of the room by eight o'clock he'd make it in on time. It occurred to him then that he didn't actually need to get up yet, and so he re-set the clock for twenty to eight and reached across with it to the bedside cabinet.
As he replaced the clock a small frown appeared on his face, and his hand dropped to the drawer. He opened it, and extracted a small packet. The packet was half empty, and, turning it over in his hand, he stared at it for a moment, expressionless. A stark, black label bisected twin lines of small, white pills, announcing Citalopram 60 mg Film Coated Tablets. Taking a breath, he located the pocket labelled `Tuesday' and pressed out the pill. A glass of water lay beside the TV remote, and he took a sip, and swallowed. After that he shuffled back down the mattress and slid beneath the covers, closing his eyes again and turning his face towards the pillows.
1230
It seemed pointless to sit alone in the cafeteria, and so after the meeting Wilson ate at his desk. He didn't eat much. Half a sandwich seemed like more than enough.
The discussion had gone on longer than he'd anticipated, and he rubbed his hand across the bridge of his nose reflexively as he went over the events of the morning in his mind.
Cuddy had stared at him in surprise when he'd fumbled his response to a question from Williamson, and he'd known it was clear to her that he was only vaguely familiar with the contents of the papers. She'd recovered quickly, though, and had moved things rapidly forwards, diverting the question to Palmer from orthopedics and pushing the discussion along.
After the meeting she'd approached him as he was gathering his files together, and smiled. "Is everything ok? You seem a little distracted lately." She'd smiled again, and he'd detected a note of uncertainty in her voice. "Late night? Anything or anyone I should know about?" She'd leaned back against the table, then, and stared up at him, curiously, and he'd been painfully aware of the intensity of her gaze. A slow heat spread across his face as he remembered it now, and he shifted in his seat and reached for the back of his neck, re-living the embarrassment as though he was hearing her words for the first time.
"Yeah, sorry about that," he'd bluffed, and he'd produced a rueful grin. "I just haven't been sleeping too well recently. I think it's the noise of that damn traffic outside the window!" He'd ground to a halt, then, confused and entangled in his lie, and unsure about what to say next. Shaking his head, he'd tried another smile as he'd lifted his papers and hugged them close against his chest, and as they'd turned together to walk out of the room he'd begun again, trying for a lighter note. "Perhaps it's time for me to look around for an apartment. The divorce is almost through now, and after House's place... well, the unaccustomed silence seems to be keeping me awake!"
A small frown had appeared on Cuddy's forehead, and as Wilson had turned to make his way towards the elevator, anxious to be free of the conversation, and smiling a polite goodbye, she'd reached forwards and placed a hand upon his arm. He'd had to stop, and she'd stared up at him again, concern now replacing curiosity upon her face.
Cuddy had studied him carefully. Wilson looked exhausted, she'd thought: washed out, and paler than usual. She'd noticed dark shadows beneath his eyes, and the thought had struck her suddenly that he seemed older, and she wasn't sure when that had happened. He seemed quieter too, and she'd realised that she couldn't remember the last time she'd heard him laugh. "Are you sure you're ok?" she'd asked, and then she'd paused for a moment, a little unsure herself about how to proceed. Her hand had shifted slightly on his arm, and she'd persisted, gently. "If there's anything wrong, you know you can always speak to me?" She'd paused again, a little awkward now. "It's a difficult time, with all this... insanity between House and Tritter." Then she'd smiled. "I won't offer you beer and The L Word, but I'd be happy to talk any time."
Cuddy's grasp was firm, and, unable to avoid her any longer, Wilson had looked down, and seen the concern in her eyes. Immediately he'd been aware of a painful tightening at the back of his throat, and he'd almost panicked as his face had begun to redden, and he'd felt a prickle of tears at the back of his eyes. Horrified, he'd ducked his head quickly, and broken free of Cuddy's grasp, a little more roughly than he'd intended. "No, really! I'm fine. Maybe just a little tired," he'd said, and he'd grinned down at her, widely. Cuddy's expression hadn't changed, though, and Wilson had cast around frantically for something to add that might sound in any way convincing. "I've seen a lot of flu in the clinic this week. Maybe I'll stop by the pharmacy on the way back this evening, and pick something up."
Cuddy hadn't looked convinced, but she'd stepped back slightly and pressed her files together as she'd prepared to walk away. "All right , then," she'd smiled, a little uncertainly. "Make sure you do." She'd hesitated, though, and shot him a final searching look before she'd turned and made her way along the corridor. "Remember what I said, though."
Remembering it now, Wilson's stomach churned, and he lowered his forehead onto his hands. At 38, he was one of the youngest department heads in the country, and highly respected in his field. He was aware that Cuddy admired him - she'd been his most vocal supporter when the headship had come up 3 years earlier, and he was well aware of just how much influence, and maybe even pressure, she'd been able and willing to exert when some of the older members of the board had though him too young for the post. They rarely spent time together outside the hospital, but he considered her a friend.
Even Cuddy had clearly defined limits, though, and he winced again as he considered where they might lie. He was conscientious and efficient, and he knew that he was popular, but he wasn't like House - so preternaturally brilliant that - despite all of Cuddy's whining - virtually any bizarre behavioural anomaly could eventually be accommodated by the hospital, in the interests of keeping him around - and Wilson knew that he couldn't afford to destroy this opportunity in the way he seemed to have destroyed many of the other important elements of his life. Patients needed strength and reassurance from their doctors: particularly the sorts of patients Wilson dealt with on a daily basis. It was Cuddy's job to make sure they got it, and she was good at her job. She wouldn't be willing to jeopardize the well-being of patients if it appeared to her that one of her doctors was on the verge of an emotional meltdown. Rubbing at the back of his neck again, Wilson could barely believe the way he'd behaved.
More of Cuddy's earlier words ran through his mind again, and he flinched as he recalled them. "You seem a little distracted lately. Late night? Anything or anyone I should know about?" With his track record, he supposed he couldn't blame her for wondering if he'd been sleeping around, but he'd thought she knew him better than to believe he would ever allow a relationship to interfere with his ability to do his job.
His phone rang suddenly, and he reached for it, distractedly. It was the clinic, and when the nurse reminded him apologetically that he was scheduled for duty that afternoon, mentioned that Cuddy had been asking about him and enquired about whether he'd still be able to make it down, he looked at his watch in surprise and could hardly believe his eyes when he saw that it was already 2 o'clock. He'd wasted well over an hour sitting dreaming at his desk, and he hadn't even begun on the charting that he'd been hoping to clear up over lunch. Frowning, he apologised to the nurse and told her he'd be there in five minutes. He unhooked his white coat from the coat stand as he left the office, and moments later he closed the door behind him.
1730
Hearing laughter as he buttoned his coat, Wilson realised he couldn't remember his last real smile. He turned towards the source of the laughter, and saw a group of interns dressed in sparkling antlers and Santa Claus suits make their way out of reception and head across towards the bar.
He'd seen House's fellows leave earlier, relieved to have established Abigail on a course of growth hormone medication and planning a few quiet drinks before maybe a restaurant for dinner. When he'd passed them on his way to House's office, Chase had stopped to tell him the news about Abigail. The other two had continued, but had stopped to wait for Chase a short distance along the corridor. It had been obvious that all three of them were on their way out together, and Chase had asked Wilson if he'd like to join them for a drink. Foreman had said nothing, though, and Cameron hadn't bothered to conceal her contempt, and Wilson had refused, politely mentioning a non-existent prior family commitment in an attempt to smooth the awkward moment along. Ducking his head, now, he tucked his briefcase under his left arm and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. He turned towards the rain, and as he walked towards the parking lot his mind returned to his thoughts of earlier in the day.
It was 4 months, now, since he'd finally been compelled to accept that he needed some sort of help, and he'd gone to considerable lengths to ensure that news of his problems wouldn't filter back to anybody at the hospital. He'd made a phone call, and then taken a personal day and driven way down state to a hospital in a small town, where he'd had lunch with an old friend from medical school. House had badgered him about it at the time, demanding to know where he was going and why he needed to leave town so suddenly, and mid-week, to be there, and although Wilson had brushed him off with an excuse about visiting his brother's family he was pretty sure House hadn't believed him.
It had been worth it, though. He'd known Susan Oliver for almost 20 years, and he knew that anything they discussed would remain between them. She'd been concerned enough to insist that he should start on an anti-depressant right away, and he'd left the hospital with her prescription for Citalopram in his pocket. She'd wanted to arrange a more formal assessment too, and had urged him to allow her to refer him to a colleague, but Wilson hadn't been willing to go that far; not at that stage, anyway. She'd argued the point, but eventually they'd agreed to meet instead at weekly intervals, and to review the situation in a month.
"Call me anytime," she'd told him, as she'd kissed him warmly on the cheek and stepped back from their embrace.
It had been a long time since anyone had held Wilson that way - with strength, and the kind of deeply felt affection born of shared experiences, mutual trust and a long, easy friendship. Wilson valued that kind of friendship; he prized it more highly than anything else. Real friendship was not something he embarked upon easily, though. Sudden tears stung his eyes at the memory of Susan's embrace, and he felt a lump form at the back of his throat as his thoughts turned to his friendship with House. Swallowing hard, he pulled a fist from his pocket and began to scrub the tears away.
"Give my love to Paula," he'd smiled, as he'd climbed into his car and prepared to drive back up to Princeton.
"I will!" Susan had replied. "She's all bound up in a big trial at the moment, and I feel as though I've hardly seen her for a month! She'd love to see you, though. One of these weekends you'll have to stay over, and we'll have dinner."
It was hard to believe that almost 4 months had passed since then. Susan had increased the dose from 20mg to 40mg when Wilson hadn't noticed an immediate improvement, but after that things had begun to settle down a little, for a while. He'd noticed a reduction in his anxiety, and his sleep had begun to improve.
House's shooting had triggered his panic attacks again, but Susan had driven straight up to see him, and she'd stayed on for a couple of days. Remembering it now, Wilson closed his eyes for a moment. Coming as it had on top of everything else, he could barely imagine how he'd have managed to get through the experience without her.
Things had calmed down again, though, and he'd almost returned to his previous level of improvement when the whole Tritter business had begun. He and Susan had reduced their meetings to once every two weeks by that time, but immediately after Tritter's unexpected visit to his hotel room Wilson had called her, and Susan had told him to drive over straight away. He'd driven down, calling Cuddy on the car phone and telling her he needed to take another personal day. On his arrival at their apartment Susan and Paula had both run out to meet him at the car, and then Paula had made tea, closing the door behind her as she'd left him in the living room with Susan, to talk.
Wilson had begun to make his way through an explanation, but when he'd reached the part where Tritter had threatened both of them with jail he'd been unable to continue. He'd started to cry, then, and he hadn't been able to stop. Susan had increased the dose to 60mg after that, and pushed him hard again to agree to a referral. Wilson had still refused, though. He'd been unable to explain to Susan precisely why it was that he wasn't willing to speak to a therapist. Considering it now, though, he realised that he was scared of where a referral might lead. He was afraid of what a quiet, careful analysis with an incisive, impartial observer might reveal to him about himself.
Glancing up, now, he was surprised to see the parking lot just ahead of him. There was no sign of House's motorbike in his parking space, and, arriving at his car, Wilson opened the door and tossed his briefcase onto the passenger seat, before taking off his jacket and laying it down in the back. He got in, and inserted the key into the ignition, but then he sat for a moment before turning towards the back seat and reaching into his jacket for his phone. He hadn't been surprised when House had almost laughed in his face earlier, when Wilson had suggested they might spend the evening together. Wilson had been desperate, though, and so he'd steeled himself to ask. The fact that House's response was not unexpected didn't make the rejection any easier to bear. He tried House's number now, but there was no reply, and so he pocketed the phone and started the engine.
Back at the hotel, he stepped into the elevator and made his way up to the third floor. He tucked his briefcase under his arm as he slipped the cardkey into the door, and reached for the handle. The card clicked, and when he pressed against the door it opened easily. Four months had been long enough to establish a routine, and as he stepped into the room he slipped the "Do Not Disturb" sign from the inside handle to the outside, before pushing the door closed behind him.
As he made his way towards the window he placed his briefcase on the floor and slipped out of his overcoat, draping it across the bed. The room was unnaturally tidy again, and he saw a small pile of fresh towels arranged carefully upon the chair. He walked across to the closet, reached for a hanger and walked back to the bed to change out of his suit. Dressing in casual clothes to spend the evening alone in the room seemed entirely pointless, and so he put on his pyjama bottoms and a fresh t-shirt, and sat down on the bed.
He looked at his watch, and saw that it was almost 8 o'clock. He was pretty sure that House would be locked in his apartment now, and almost automatically his mind began to picture the scene. House had managed to find a drug source somewhere, earlier on in the day, so Wilson knew he wouldn't be detoxing. The opportunity to take the deal with Tritter closed tomorrow, though, and, despite all his earlier denials, Wilson knew that House would be considering it now; analysing the situation from every angle, and weighing all potential outcomes in the balance. He reached for his phone, and tried House's number again. The line was busy, though, and he laid the phone beside him on the bed, surprised, and wondering who House could be talking to.
He got up, then, and walked back over to the closet. He hung up his suit, and then bent down and opened his sports bag, pulling out an unopened bottle of scotch. He walked to the table near the window, and leaned forwards to pick up a glass from the tray. He opened the bottle and poured himself a drink, and sat down in the chair.
He'd been playing through the possibilities in his mind almost constantly since Tritter had shocked him to the core by producing the evidence of House's forged prescriptions. It had been terrifyingly clear to Wilson at that stage that Tritter simply wasn't going to stop until he'd achieved his objective, and that - regardless of whether Wilson agreed to testify or not - the most likely outcome was a conviction. If that happened, House would lose his license, and Wilson expected him to spend anything up to the next 10 years of his life in jail. Wilson's whole being recoiled at the prospect, but nothing he'd been able to say to House on the subject had moved him an inch.
He'd made a last ditch attempt to force House's hand by entering into the deal with Tritter - Wilson would give evidence, but only in exchange for a guarantee that House would keep his license and spend no time in jail - but House had rejected even that, and with characteristic brutality had made it clear that he regarded Wilson's act as a betrayal. As he'd done with increasing frequency over the course of the last 2 weeks, Wilson attempted to imagine life at the hospital - life anywhere - without House, but again he found that he simply couldn't picture it at all. He reached for his drink, and stared out of the window onto the silent traffic below.
Ninety minutes later, Wilson reached again for his cell phone and tried both of House's numbers. There was no reply from either, and the landline didn't switch to the answering machine in the usual way. He stood up, then, and walked into the bathroom to wash his face. It seemed likely that by striking the deal with Tritter he'd already pushed his relationship with House past breaking point, but if that was the case then one final attempt to make him see reason couldn't do any further harm. He returned to the bedroom, and pulled on a pair of jeans and a jacket. He grabbed his scarf from the hook as he opened the door, and then pulled the door closed behind him.
0300
The sense of loss was crushing: unendurable. His eyes burning, Wilson reached across for the bedside light and wondered whether he would ever sleep again. Switching on the light, he rolled back onto his elbows and pushed himself up against the headboard.
It was almost three hours since he'd returned from House's apartment, but he'd been unable to dislodge the image of House sprawled across the floor - semi conscious, vomit-stained, unable to speak - for even a moment. At the instant in which he'd first seen him lying there, Wilson had thought he was dead. House wasn't dead, though, and, as Wilson had leaned over him to grab the empty pill bottle, and looked down at him again, eyes widening in disbelief, House had lifted his head and stared at Wilson, his own eyes barely focussed but gazing up in what had looked to Wilson like some sort of wordless plea. Wilson's response had been equally silent, though, and he'd stood slowly, staring down at House, and then turned away, dropping the bottle behind him as he'd walked towards the door.
He was exhausted now, but his mind raced and refused to let him sleep. He pushed back the covers in frustration, and got out of bed, walking to the table and pouring himself another drink. He sat down and held the bottle up towards the lamp. It was more than half empty, he noticed, and it occurred to him that there was another in the closet, if he needed it.
He wondered what was happening at House's apartment now. It had been difficult to turn away and leave him there - more difficult, perhaps, than anything he'd ever done before - but, as he'd seen House lying beside Larry Zebalusky's stolen pill bottle, Wilson had finally accepted that he had failed. No further words that he could speak - no further action that he could take - would make the slightest bit of difference to House. Either House hadn't grasped that the prospect of his conviction was something that affected Wilson just as closely as it affected him, or he simply didn't care. Either way, the opportunity for Wilson to try to make things right had come and gone, and he'd fucked it up. Later in the morning the chance would be gone, and, with Wilson's previous statement waiting to be read into evidence against him, House was surely on his way to jail.
Failure in important relationships was a recurrent theme in his life, it seemed to Wilson now. His brother; three wives; and now House. Grace too, in a different sort of way, and he finished his drink and reached for the bottle again. It seemed to be an established pattern, and he wondered for a moment whether perhaps it had been pre-ordained. That notion brought to mind his religion, and he realised that he had failed in that as well: in the eyes of his rabbi and his parents, at least.
Wilson stood, and looked across the table and out of the window. It seemed that the whole of Princeton stretched, shining, before him, and he was suddenly and acutely aware of a sense of isolation more powerful than any that he had ever experienced before. Lowering his head he reached again for his drink, and as he noticed his cell phone discarded on the table he wondered whether it was too late to ring Susan. "Call me anytime," she'd said, but he glanced at his watch and saw that it was almost four o'clock, and he couldn't bring himself to dial the number at that hour.
Quite suddenly, a new thought struck him, and he turned his head towards the closet. He hesitated for a moment, but then walked slowly over, and opened the door. Retaining his hold on the door he leaned in, and reached into the pocket of his dress pants. A moment later he withdrew a small plastic bottle, and leaned back out again, swaying slightly against the doorframe.
He carried the bottle back to the table and then refilled his glass, holding the bottle up to the light and surveying the label. Larry Zebalusky. Oxycodone. Qty:30. Dr James Wilson. He pictured the scene in Mr Zebalusky's room earlier that afternoon, and how he'd taken the bottle from House, and the irony of the situation struck him, suddenly, with such force that he almost laughed out loud.
Wilson felt his heart thumping hard against his ribs as he sat down in the chair, and weighed the bottle in his hand. It was light, and he tossed it back and forth for a moment, listening to it rattle as it landed. He stopped, suddenly, and reached for the lid, twisting it open and pouring out the contents onto the table. They settled into a small mound, and he spread them flat with his finger, and pushed them into a line. 30 didn't look a particularly large number, when illustrated in that way, and he reached for his glass again and took a slow drink, quieter now. His thoughts turned to House, and for a moment he wondered whether House's thoughts had turned to him, when he'd swallowed the last of his pills earlier in the evening.
It was while he was leaning forwards in his chair, and staring at the Oxycodone, that he thought he heard a knock at the door. He pushed his arm forwards and looked again at his watch, and he saw that it was after half past four. He turned back towards the table, but he heard the noise again and sat up suddenly, his head swimming painfully at the unexpected movement. He heard the knock a third time - definite, now, and a little louder - and he rose slowly from his chair and walked across to the door. Hesitating, he stared towards the handle, and as he reached down to take hold of it he saw it move slightly. Heart thumping again, he grasped the handle and pressed, and pulled the door towards him.
House had showered and changed his clothes since Wilson had left him on the floor, but to Wilson he still looked a mess. His red-rimmed eyes looked paler than usual, bloodshot and painfully prominent in a face that appeared almost impossibly gaunt. His hair stuck out in patches, and as Wilson swayed in the doorway he noticed that House still smelled slightly of vomit and whiskey.
House didn't quite meet Wilson's eyes, but he shifted his weight against his cane and coughed a little, finally asking, quietly, "Can I come in?" He looked up, then, and saw Wilson stagger slightly, and reach for the doorframe, a series of apparently conflicting emotions passing rapidly across his face.
For some moments, Wilson stared back at House, blankly, and made no move to respond. Quite suddenly, though, his head swam violently, as the liter of whiskey in his stomach reacted against the sight and smell, and he just managed to turn back towards the room before he heaved the whiskey onto the carpet. He was vaguely aware of a movement behind him, and then he felt House's left arm snake around his ribs, and House was dragging him into the room.
House turned Wilson round and pushed him onto the bed. "Sit there and put your head down," he heard, and he felt House take hold of him by his shoulder, and push his head towards the floor. Wilson began to feel better, and as his head cleared he lifted his face and looked up at House.
House was inspecting the room, though, and as his gaze reached the table he stiffened suddenly, and stood up, reaching quickly for his cane. He limped across and took hold of the small brown bottle, and then he leaned forwards quickly and pushed his fingers into the pills. He spun back towards Wilson, and Wilson almost flinched at the mixture of stark pain and anger apparent on his face.
"What the hell were you doing?" yelled House, dropping the bottle and lunging forwards. He grabbed Wilson by the head and leaned towards him, pushing his left eyelid back and shouting, "How many did you take?" Wilson's head spun at the noise and sudden movement, and his stomach lurched heavily. Unable to speak, he wrapped his arms around his ribs and bent quickly forwards, vomiting more of the whiskey down his legs.
House began to pant, slightly, and his eyes grew even larger in his face. He jerked backwards as Wilson's shoulders moved towards him, but, as Wilson heaved, he dropped to his left knee beside Wilson's head, and pressed his fingers urgently to his neck. "Tell me how many you took, Jimmy," he demanded, quietly, his other hand reaching for Wilson's forehead, and then moving across his face. He looked quickly at his watch, then, and glared up at Wilson again. "What time did you take them?"
Recovering his breath, Wilson heaved himself up and tried to push House away. "I haven't taken anything," he said, hoarsely. "It's just whiskey. I almost finished the bottle."
House stared at him, doubtfully, but breathing a little more slowly now, and Wilson tried again. "They're all there on the table, if you count them." He looked down for a moment, and then lifted his eyes to House's again. "I haven't taken any, yet."
House stood again, and moved back to the table. He looked down at the pills and paused, and Wilson saw him take a breath. House finished counting, but he didn't turn around, and Wilson watched as instead he lifted his face to the window and stared out. He stood like that for several minutes, and then Wilson saw him raise his hand to his face, and rub it quickly across his eyes.
House turned, finally, and made his way more slowly back to the bed. He sat down beside Wilson, not meeting his eyes again, and muttered, "How's your stomach now?"
"Better," said Wilson, with a small smile. "How about your own?"
House didn't answer Wilson's question, and instead he stared down into his lap, both hands resting on the top of his cane. "I went to see Tritter," he said, eventually, turning towards Wilson, and then dropping his eyes. "I told him I'd take the deal, but he said it's off the table. He doesn't need your evidence now." House's eyes turned involuntarily towards the pills, but he looked quickly away, and stared back down into his lap.
Wilson tried to take in the new information, but he was so tired, now, that he couldn't work it out. He stood and walked towards the bathroom, and a moment later House heard water running. Wilson emerged with a glass, and retook his seat on the bed. As he stared towards the carpet he felt House shift beside him, and then he felt a gentle pressure on his wrist. He looked up in surprise, and saw House's right hand resting on his arm.
House's grip tightened, slightly, and he looked across at Wilson. "I'm sorry, Jimmy," he said, quietly. "I don't know where we go from here, but maybe it's still possible to work something out."
Wilson looked back for a moment, and then he leaned forwards and placed his glass upon the floor. He sat up again, then, and slid a little closer to House, placing his left arm around House's shoulders. Glancing towards the window, he saw the first signs of dawn begin to light the sky, and as he felt House lean into his side, and rest his head cautiously upon his shoulder, Wilson hoped from the bottom of his heart that it would indeed be possible.
The End
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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 NBC/Universal, 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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