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Towards an Understanding of the Catabolic Nature of the Human Male
by Topaz Eyes
Notes: Many, many thanks are owed to euclase and nightdog_barks for their fabulous comments and criticism on the early draft , and to my f-list for their encouragement!
~~~~~
Doctor Gregory House, renowned physician and ranking professor of medical philosophy at the College of New Jersey in Princeton, took notice of the newly arrived doctor almost immediately after he set up business in the neat brownstone district of the town. Normally House paid no heed to new arrivals, especially well-heeled society newcomers, but the new physician's office was on his way to the campus theater where he gave his lectures (when he deigned to hold them, that is). Though, to tell the truth, it was the glint of the brass plaque on the front door that caught his eye.
House used his cane to maneuver the two steps to the door. There he read the carefully-engraved plaque: "Doctor James E. Wilson, Specialist in Female Disorders with Particular Attention to Hysteria and Neurasthenia."
He scoffed, amused: 'Particular Attention,' indeed. Still, if a man chose this particular specialty of gynecology, it would certainly be interesting to get acquainted with him. At least until he became bored with the man, of course. Yes--a call was certainly in order.
Let us see what we are in for, he thought.
Upon admitting himself into the outer waiting room, House automatically scanned and catalogued its disposition as a routine inspection of a fellow's natural mien. Most doctor's offices, including his own, were stark and utilitarian in nature, stocking only the necessary equipment and apothecary a doctor would need. This office, however, was most luxuriously appointed and suited to the feminine taste, should the appearance of the waiting room be any indication of such. Wide stuffed scroll wing chairs were grouped in small circles conducive to conversation; damask draperies were tied back from a wide bay window to admit the sunlight; and a graceful rug of trailing ivy lay on the glossy oaken floor close to the hearth. The side tables were adorned with vases of ferns, lilies and roses, filling the room with heady fragrance. The ambiance alone intrigued him; he decided to inquire further.
At a quarter of nine, already the waiting room was full of ladies chatting amiably, stitching or reading. One or two ladies he knew looked up and nodded politely at him, but he did not stop to visit; a gruff and cantankerous man, he rarely had use for societal niceties. Instead, he strode straight to the assistant's desk, which was set back close to the closed treatment room door.
"May I help you, sir?" The assistant was young, perhaps just shy of twenty, short in stature and bespectacled. Even better, he was also new to town and therefore was not yet aware of House's rather unique reputation in the community.
"I would like to speak with Doctor Wilson."
"He's preparing for the day, sir. If you would be so kind as to wait a few minutes, I can fetch him for you--"
House headed to the door, heedless of the assistant's protests in his wake. He turned the shining knob, pushed the door open with his cane, and entered uninvited.
A handsome, rather young-looking man looked up from his desk. He rose with a bemused smile: House noted his neat brown hair and his dark and highly intelligent brown eyes set in a chiseled, clean-shaven face. He was tall, House noted, perhaps only an inch or so shorter than himself, well-put together, and very well-dressed--in stark contrast to House's own unruly graying hair, bewhiskered cheeks, lack of waistcoat and cravat, and worn shoes.
"May I help you?" the young doctor asked, perplexed.
"Doctor Wilson, I presume."
Wilson spread his hands. His teeth flashed in a widening grin. "I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage, sir."
"Doctor Gregory House."
"Oh yes!" Wilson rounded the desk and extended his hand. "I have heard many splendid things about you. I am very pleased to meet you at last, sir!"
House stared down at the outstretched hand with its clean and straight nails, but he did not take it. Instead, he rebuffed the gesture and ignored Wilson's subsequent confusion, choosing instead to survey the man's office and presumed treatment room.
Wilson's office was just as feminine as the waiting room, with similar rug and window dressings, although only one velvet wing chair sat in the middle, this one with a matching stuffed Ottoman in front. The cushion appeared flattened and the velvet crushed, as if someone were accustomed to sitting on it hour after hour. The typical doctor's office kit--the leather-topped table, medicaments and instruments in their cabinets--was present, though relegated to the space behind Wilson's desk and hidden by another large vase of hundred-leaved roses, so that it was inconspicuous to the ordinary female observer.
"I must admit, Wilson, your arrival has relieved a significant burden for the doctors in this town," House said when he finished his visual inspection.
"Indeed," Wilson replied amiably.
Although, most have also yet to notice the significant impact such a practice would have on their earning potential."
Wilson raised an amused eyebrow. "Yes, that is the unique advantage of treating hysteria, I suppose. I assume the reduced income must bother you as well? If so, I do apologize--"
"I didn't say that." House leaned on his cane. "Income is meaningless beyond what one requires for a decent standard of living. I, for one, am glad of the increased opportunity to pursue interests of a more interesting and intelligent nature."
"I am pleased for you, sir," Wilson said, glancing quickly at his fob watch. "But I'm afraid I have to ask you to excuse me now. I must prepare to receive my first patient."
Much to House's surprise, he heard himself utter, "Perhaps we might convene at the college faculty club for dinner this evening."
Wilson peered at him, his features registering surprise at the suddenness of the invitation. House added hurriedly, with a scoff, "I shouldn't like to waste a barely-used membership."
Wilson smiled. "I would like that, yes."
"I shall meet you there at six o'clock." He stumped out of the office, confident that Wilson would agree.
~~~~~
Gregory House was a curious man who could not resist a puzzle, and certainly Doctor James E. Wilson fit the description of one. According to those assistants whom he employed, the man had been born with the world beneath his feet: his family were society pillars in Westchester; he had earned his medical degree from Columbia, graduating summa cum laude; he had interned at the Boston Lying-In Hospital, having established a thriving obstetrics practice there before arriving in Princeton.
However, despite his privilege, Doctor Wilson was apparently not immune to tragedy. He had had three wives: his first wife had succumbed to consumption, while the second and third--House could not conceive of anyone having three wives--had perished in childbirth. Wilson himself was left childless; the babes had died soon after their mothers. There were also rumors of a missing and possibly insane brother.
Yet, on top of these tragedies, and despite Wilson's proper upbringing, House had a keen sense that there was something not quite right about the man. Perhaps most mystifying to House was how such an accomplished physician with excellent credentials could concentrate his many medical talents on diagnosing and treating what were in House's opinion, annoying and minor female inconveniences. Wilson was either a fool permanently lost to his grief--or shrewder than anyone knew. House was determined to prove which was which.
He began to visit Wilson's office around dinner-time or after closing, even frequenting the faculty club most evenings to spend more time in the younger man's presence. Soon, House found that Wilson was able to converse on a surprisingly wide range of subjects. Moreover, Wilson was able to keep up with House's discourses, even surpassing him on occasion, unlike his other supposedly well-educated colleagues in town. That alone earned him House's begrudging respect.
As months turned to years, they became close friends. Perhaps it was Wilson's surprisingly high tolerance of House's foibles--his rudeness, his impatient outbursts, his fits of melancholia juxtaposed with his manic tangents of thought--that kept House in thrall of him. Such loyalty terrified House at first, as he believed, deep in his heart, that he was unworthy of such regard. In protest of his growing estimation for the man, House kept pushing Wilson, taking him for granted, and placing more and more outrageous demands on him to see when he might break. Wilson might have bent under House's absurd requests but he remained steadfast. With time House began to admit, though reluctantly, that perhaps his feelings towards Wilson might run far deeper than friendship.
He buried this realization and concealed the feelings it produced, for such matters of emotion had grievously wounded him in the past; he did not believe he could bear another betrayal of the heart. House held back expressing his true desires for a long time, used as he was to hiding them; however, as unrequited yearnings go, they became too strong to bear, eventually leading him and Wilson to a crisis that threatened to destroy them.
~~~~~
For his part, Wilson was already well aware of House's unique reputation; upon his arrival in Princeton, he had made discreet inquiries of his own. He had learned that, professionally, House was as widely regarded for his medical skills and his vast knowledge as he was personally deplored for his atrocious and willful disregard of polite societal custom. So potent was House's notoriety that a few of the members of the faculty club had cornered Wilson upon his first visit there, when he'd temporarily left House's company to attend to private business. They took great care in warning him away from House's "questionable influence" on men's careers and optimistic dispositions. Indeed, when Wilson went to meet House at the club, he often found the man glowering alone in a dark corner, far from the conversation and cigars, as if that cemented his antisocial reputation--which, Wilson admitted, it probably did.
While much was made of House's current professional standing in the Princeton medical community, his personal affairs remained shrouded in mystery. He owned a manse on Baker Street, not far from the edge of town, and employed three servants--Cameron, his nurse and housekeeper; Chase, his livery boy; and Foreman, a taciturn Negro who functioned as House's personal secretary--all of whom remained tight-lipped about their master's past. House attended only those patients for whom the town's doctors could not ascertain their illness; apart from dining at the faculty club at the college, he was rarely seen elsewhere.
As it turned out, the College Dean's lovely and vivacious wife, Mrs. Liza Cuddy, seemed to know the most about the man's personal history. Not long after his meeting House, Wilson was received in the office of Mrs. Cuddy's husband as a matter of courtesy to welcome him to Princeton.
"Forgive my husband, he has been ill these past few weeks," she said after the usual pleasantries were exchanged.
"I hope his illness is just passing," Wilson said kindly.
"Doctor House believes so, but he has ordered strict bed rest nonetheless. Shall we have some tea?"
She rang a tiny silver bell, and a cart containing dainty cucumber sandwiches, fresh strawberries, and clotted cream appeared within a few minutes. Mrs. Cuddy served, and when they finally settled down in the spacious and sunlit study, they began to talk.
"I trust you have established yourself sufficiently, Doctor Wilson?"
"Yes, thank you. My practice is already flourishing. There seems to be a high demand for my services, for which I am grateful--if rather overwhelmed at the moment."
"I suppose they would be in high demand." Mrs. Cuddy smiled enigmatically, then nodded. "I believe that Doctor House, for one, is glad of your arrival."
"Indeed, he mentioned it upon our first meeting." At this, Wilson inclined his head. "Regarding Doctor House..."
"Yes?"
"Pardon my saying this--I hope I do not sound too forward--but it seems that he has taken an especial interest in me."
Mrs. Cuddy's eyebrows arched delicately. "I have heard that," she replied. "That is most unusual for him. He tolerates almost no one."
"So I have gathered." Wilson smiled into his teacup. "A shame, for he is a witty and scintillating conversationalist."
Mrs. Cuddy returned his smile. "Yes, yes he is."
"Mrs. Cuddy, again, if you will pardon my forwardness, I have made some inquiries regarding Doctor House, but I have found little success thus far."
"He is a very private man. Aside from his servants, he allows very few people into his sphere."
"Yes--but surely someone knows something--anything--about him? If I am to associate with him further, I should like to know."
"My own knowledge is limited," Mrs. Cuddy began, "though I am aware that he had been betrothed once, a long time ago. But there was an accident, about eight years now I believe, which cost him both the use of his leg and his engagement. Such a shame, too, for Miss Warner came from a good family. She was very well-educated, extremely witty, and high-spirited. They were well-suited for each other."
At that, she looked down and nibbled on her lower lip, a peculiar sorrow shadowing her visage. "Sadly, he has been totally irascible since he sent her away. The man seems to take refuge in his loneliness."
After a few moments, she looked up again. "I pray that your presence and continued friendship will benefit Doctor House. It pains me greatly to see him so miserable. If you can bring him even a little contentment with his current lot, it will be a miracle."
"Then I shall endeavor to do my best by him," Wilson replied.
The memory of this conversation lingered, such that a few evenings later, while visiting the club, Wilson decided to raise the issue with his friend. He waited until after dinner (a delicious spread of roasted beef of which they ate heartily), when they were sipping their after-dinner port, to broach the issue.
"Forgive my intrusiveness, House, but--"
House stared at him. "You have a question?"
Wilson took his statement to mean assent. "Well, sir, yes--I am curious, with regard to your disability--"
"You would like to know what happened."
Wilson blinked at House's abruptness. "Yes. Yes I would. But of course you are not required to--"
"It was an equestrian accident," House replied, staring at the rich paneling beyond Wilson's chair. "My limb was trampled by a stallion that failed to negotiate a fence on my betrothed's father's property. I found myself face-down in a bog, and believed I'd been thrown clear of the steed, but he then reared, turned and galloped towards me. I was stunned and could not move out of the way."
"My God, man," Wilson whispered in horror. He found himself reaching out to grasp House's hand. "You were extremely fortunate that you were not killed."
House looked down at Wilson's hand which covered his own, and withdrew it, leaving the other man's hand palm-down on the table.
"The femur was broken and penetrated the skin. They say my inadvertent mud-bath was a miracle, or else the bone would have been shattered outright by the force of the hoof."
"Of course," Wilson agreed. "Still, what with the dirt and the bone perforating the integument--the doctor did not wish to amputate?"
"I refused it."
Wilson was nonplussed. "But the risk of your dying from suppuration and gangrene--"
House thumped his cane impatiently. "Was the same whether I kept or lost my leg! I chose to remain whole." He frowned and winced as his hand clenched his mangled thigh.
From his demeanor, Wilson intimated immediately that House regretted his choice. "I am sorry things did not work out as you'd hoped," he said gently--only to draw back at the flashing anger in House's glare.
"I don't need your pity!" He then added, with barely controlled rage, "Nor do I care to discuss the matter further." At this, House heaved himself up and thumped out of the drawing room, leaving Wilson to stare, distressed, after his lopsided, retreating form.
Once House had gone, another professor who had witnessed the exchange attended his table.
"I must say, Doctor Wilson, you got off lightly there," he remarked.
"I fear I may have offended him," Wilson said, still staring at House, even though the man was now gone.
"I should not concern myself about it," the professor replied. "Come, join us at our table. We have an opening for you there, and you are always welcome in our company."
So Wilson did just that, but his fear persisted throughout the remainder of the evening that he had lost his friend.
Indeed, House did not grace Wilson's door for several days following their argument. Wilson engaged himself with the other gentlemen at the faculty club in House's absence, but he missed his friend keenly--the camaraderie, the conversation, House's simple and mesmerizing presence. The other gentlemen were, frankly, stifling bores by comparison.
Worse, any attempts on Wilson's part to mend their friendship were quickly rebuffed. Foreman steadfastly refused him entry when he called upon House at the estate, stating that he was receiving no one at this time. Chase and Cameron also sent him away, although Cameron was more forthright than the other two: she confided to Wilson that House's pain had increased several-fold over the past week, and that he had increased his consumption of opium to the point where he was almost prostrate. Wilson, alarmed, doubled his efforts to reach the man, but House's servants remained aloof to his pleas.
Yet unexpectedly, a few days later when Wilson was almost driven to distraction from his work duties, House showed up at his office at the end of the workday per his usual custom, and acted as if nothing at all had transpired between them. Wilson, who at the time had been sitting slumped and dejected at his desk, jumped up with relief and went to shake House's hand. House brushed off the gesture, sat down with his feet propped on Wilson's desk, and immediately began a spirited discourse concerning Mr. Thomas Malthus' influence upon Mr. Charles Darwin's newly published Origin of Species.
This, Wilson would painfully learn over the coming months and years, would soon become a familiar pattern of their acquaintance: House' sulking retreat after a particularly heated argument between them, usually concerning House's personal failures, his fondness for drink or his escalating dependence on opium for his leg pain, followed by his return a few days later to resume the friendship where it left off without so much as a by-your-leave. It sometimes amused Wilson, sometimes piqued him. Sometimes it was both, but because House always returned to him, Wilson accepted it for what it was, and was grateful that the man was at least predictable in his infuriating behavior.
Over the years, Wilson did not limit his company strictly to House; he also associated with the other members of the faculty club and became a popular fixture in Princeton's polite society. It was House's quicksilver friendship, however, that he cherished and looked forward to the most. Wilson learned over the years that House, too, cared for him in his own odd way, and over the years, he slowly admitted to himself that he would do almost anything the man asked of him--out of loyalty and yes, out of love--even if that thing were to his personal detriment.
~~~~~
Several years into their comfortable, if rather unfathomable friendship, during one late evening after a relaxing dinner and the ensuing conversation and cigars at the club, House swirled his snifter of brandy and pinned Wilson with what was a now-familiar and beloved glare of insight, interest and amusement. "I have a theory, Wilson," he said thoughtfully as the brandy glowed in reflected firelight.
"Indeed?"
"It concerns the topic of hysterical paroxysm."
Wilson laughed heartily. "Then I am well suited to hear your theory, sir."
House looked up at him, his visage sobering. "Not here," he said. "It is a delicate matter, and this is not a delicate place. We require privacy."
"Perhaps we should retire to my office to discuss it, then," Wilson replied, intrigued by the peculiar intensity he saw in his friend's face.
"Yes." House set his snifter down and rose. "Let us."
The evening was cool and brisk, the wind hitting their cheeks as they walked, shoulder-to-shoulder and matching stride for stride, from the club to Wilson's office. House remained uncharacteristically silent, though not without a particular agitation, Wilson noticed, and House seemed intent on keeping his thoughts to himself. However, Wilson was confident that House would reveal them when it suited him.
Upon arriving at the office, they discarded their cloaks and evening jackets. Wilson stoked the fire and they sat at his desk. Once settled, House, did not delay in stating his mind.
"Your practice is now considered the finest in town for the treatment of female hysteria," he pronounced.
Wilson flushed at the unexpected compliment. "Well, yes. Not to boast, but I am highly pleased with its success."
"I find it most curious, however, that in all the time we have been acquainted I have yet to encounter in your office, those devices most doctors now use for the relief of hysteria and neurasthenia. Are you even aware of them?"
Wilson nodded, ignoring the familiar note of disdain in House's voice. "Yes, I am aware of these various devices. However, I find I do not require them."
"Why not?"
"I find that, with the proper manual massage technique, the lady reaches paroxysm just as expeditiously as with any mechanical device. It simply requires care and patience on behalf of the doctor performing the procedure."
"Indeed." House tapped the carpet with his cane. Under his breath he added, "Most fortuitous."
Wilson heard his whisper. "What do you mean, House?"
House's response was maddeningly blunt. "Do you observe your patients while you perform pelvic massage?"
Wilson furrowed his brow, puzzled. "I don't think I follow--"
"Their reactions? During massage and after the paroxysm?"
"Well, yes, of course, I am well acquainted--"
"Good." House tapped his cane on the carpet. "That is the first step."
"The first step? To what, sir?"
At that, House looked away, frowning at the neat row of medicaments in the cabinet behind Wilson's desk. "I have recently been studying the social treatises of Mr. Herbert Spencer. I find myself at odds with his conclusions regarding the male and female temperaments. Are you familiar with his work?"
Wilson frowned. "I have studied his theories, yes, but not in any depth; I have not been able to devote the same time and attention to them as you. As you know, my practice is growing ever busier--"
"More specifically, I disagree with his assertion of the inability of the fairer sex to feel sexual pleasure."
At that, Wilson stopped and peered at House intently. "Indeed?"
"I have been thinking for some time now upon the similarities between the female hysterical paroxysm and the male ejaculatory process. In fact, there are enough similarities that I believe they are the very same thing." He raised his head, pinning Wilson with a steady glare.
Wilson blinked, trying to absorb House's statement. "That is an... interesting... comparison to have made, Doctor House." He grinned, spreading his hands. "Although, it is obvious to this learned man that they are quite different."
House's gaze turned cold. "Do you have any proof of that assertion, Doctor Wilson? Aside from the male's production of semen, of course."
"It is common knowledge in the medical community!" Wilson stood up from his chair with his hands on his hips, glaring down at his friend. "The male is catabolic in nature; whatever energy he does not expend during the sexual act, he directs to philosophical, artistic or scientific pursuits. It follows that the female is anabolic in nature, for it is she who must conserve energy in order to endure the rigors of childbearing. So, to intimate that a female can expend her invaluable energy in a masculine manner--"
House rose in exasperation and slammed his cane on the desk. "We live in a time of science and reason, Wilson! 'Common knowledge' is not rational in this day and age. It is superstition--no more and no less!"
"But what you suggest is--is--that in sexual physiology, women are the equivalent of men!" Wilson spluttered. "That--that contradicts every societal, religious, scientific edict--you are suggesting heresy!"
Wilson then found himself shrinking back at the look of sheer disgust that appeared on his friend's face.
"I thought you had a mind open to new and original thinking, Doctor Wilson. I see after all this time, my estimation of you was wrong." House pivoted and headed for the door.
The sullen disappointment with which House spoke moved Wilson to catch his friend and grab his hand just before he could turn the door knob. "House."
House stared down at Wilson's hand covering his own. His mouth twitched, and his tongue darted out to lick his lips; he looked up again, scowling. "If you do not intend to have me stay, release my hand."
Wilson felt he might wither under his friend's dry, icy glare. "Yes. No. I mean, I--" He closed his eyes and sighed, trying to reorder his thoughts. "House, forgive me. I, like most thinking men, am open to new ideas. I am simply pointing out that your bold proposition is perhaps too controversial for most of society to accept. And like most rational men bound to proper decorum, I find it difficult to run counter to its influence."
House's eyes narrowed as he began to turn the knob.
Wilson's grip tightened "But, my good friend, I am willing to set my misgivings aside in this event. I, like you, must believe that the truth is the truth, no matter which form it may take."
House's eyes lit with triumph, and at last he released the doorknob. "As it should be, my dear Wilson."
They moved back to Wilson's desk. Wilson poured tumblers of scotch for both of them and they clinked glasses.
"So how do you propose to test this new and controversial hypothesis, Doctor House?"
"Ah, that is where I will require your assistance, Doctor Wilson."
"I am your willing servant."
House's features acquired a sober mien, and he shot straight to the point. "It would require one to perform manual massage on a male and observe his reactions, thereby comparing his responses to those of female patients."
Wilson leaned back, his eyes widening in horror. "You--you cannot be serious!"
House's countenance did not change. "Indeed, I am not laughing. Your extensive experience with female hysterical paroxysm allows you the unique opportunity to perform an objective comparison."
Wilson jumped to his feet, his face hot with embarrassment and outrage. "But the very idea of one male touching another--it's scandalous!"
House interrupted him. "Sometimes, dear Wilson, one must conduct distasteful, unethical--even illegal--inquiries in order to serve the greater good--should one choose to accept the challenge of the calling as a man of science, that is."
Wilson mulled over this point, then frowned in exasperation; he had to admit that House was correct in his statement. Men of science could not refuse a rational mode of inquiry simply because it was personally repellent.
Slowly, he nodded assent.
"And as it is my theory to be tested," House continued, "I cannot be expected to maintain my objectivity in the matter. I can, however, serve as your experimental subject."
There seemed to be no end to House's shocking pronouncements. Wilson sank into his chair and covered his eyes, shaking his head at his friend's fearlessness.
House's voice suddenly took on a softer timbre. "Is it true that another benefit of performing routine pelvic massage is that the female patient requires far less laudanum to quiet her nerves?"
Wilson uncovered his eyes to stare at him, astonished to hear a sense of pleading--of something broken--in his friend's voice. Slowly, he nodded. "Yes, that is a felicitous aspect of the treatment."
"Then perhaps routine massage may also work in the same manner for males who require opium for unending pain." House looked away in chagrin.
Wilson witnessed how House's knuckles blanched with his vise-like grip on his cane. Revulsion warred with professional duty and love for his friend within Wilson's heart. "Your use of opium has recently escalated to levels that are worrisome to me," Wilson murmured at last. "I would prefer you investigate other options for relief, however temporary." He reached up to rub the back of his neck.
"Then you will participate."
Wilson nodded. "I will help you in this."
"Good. We shall begin tomorrow after the office closes for the day." House rose to his feet and retrieved a small notebook from his waistcoat pocket. "You will use this to record your observations of your female patients tomorrow," he said, after which he limped towards the door. He turned with his hand on the knob. "We will add the male's observations in the evening."
"Yes," Wilson replied hollowly.
"Then, good evening." House gave him a curt nod and left.
~~~~~
Wilson awoke the next morning with an odd mix of anticipation and dread for what was to come that evening. As he washed, dressed, and breakfasted for the day, he tried to console himself that it was for his duties to science and to his friend that he agreed to House's most unusual proposition. Of course, the dread was to be expected, for indeed the transaction would be fraught with danger should someone else walk in unannounced during the experiment. The anticipation, however, surprised him and puzzled him no end, yet he had no time to ponder its significance; it was time to open his office.
The work day was not unusual for his practice; he had four patients who required relief from their hysteria. Carefully he observed and recorded each visit: names, ages, marital status, overall health, the number of times and the frequency with which they were treated. Hysteria was a most unfortunate yet all-too-common diagnosis that disrupted familial and societal harmony. A happy woman made for a gracious household; this goal always remained uppermost in Wilson's mind.
Over his years as a women's physician, he had intuited what a lady preferred for a comfortable experience; hence an armchair and Ottoman instead of a cold and impersonal table, his decorous manner, and his meticulous attention to modesty and propriety throughout the visit. He escorted each lady to her chair and engaged in small talk for a few minutes, as was polite and proper. He then retreated behind the privacy screen to allow the lady to prepare herself.
The lady would be sitting with, more often than not, a blush on her face and an expectant sparkle in her eyes by the time he returned carrying a small bottle of mineral oil containing essence of lavender. He sat down on the ottoman, poured a small amount of the fragrant oil on his fingers, and carefully slid his hand up her dress skirt and petticoats, past her lowered drawers, to reach her pelvis.
From there the massage was straightforward--Wilson rubbed small circles over her labia as he carefully watched the lady for signs of impending paroxysm. The small gasps and sighs, the lady resting her head against the back of the chair; her hips beginning to rock as she pressed herself rhythmically against his fingers. He observed her increasingly ragged breathing, the fluttering eyelids, the blush spreading from the lady's cheeks down towards her bosom, the glow on her skin. Wilson was extremely careful not to penetrate her; that was her husband's domain, not his. When he judged the lady was close, he slid a finger up to rub the spot he'd learned was most guaranteed to bring about the hysterical paroxysm: the release of all pent-up tension, the most unladylike moan emanating from her lips, the thrust of her pelvis against his fingers with surprising force.
At the conclusion of the paroxysm, the lady rested for a few minutes to calm her nerves and gather her strength; she rearranged herself when he rose to wash his hands. After another minute or two of polite conversation and a reminder to schedule her next appointment with Wilson's assistant, the visit was over. It required only twenty minutes for each appointment for hysteria, rarely more than thirty; most patients returned once or twice weekly, although for a time he'd had one particularly fractious young wife return daily, until her husband reported her neurasthenia had waned and she again exhibited the necessary decorum as fitted her station.
Wilson reflected upon all of this while he treated his patients, lunched alone at the club, and wrote out his notes for House's study. Much to his surprise, his earlier apprehension had slowly transformed throughout the day to something more resembling curiosity regarding House's controversial hypothesis. In the past, when making love to his dear wives, he had noted in passing a release in them that was very similar to his patients, occurring just before or soon after he'd planted his seed. Yet none of his wives had exhibited any neurasthenia. Most fascinating, he thought. Perhaps House was on to something.
Fifteen minutes before the appointed time of House's arrival, Wilson dismissed his assistant for the day.
"You have worked most diligently today, Robert," he said kindly, clapping his shoulder. "There is no need for you to stay any longer tonight. Go home to your lovely wife. I will close the office this evening."
Robert smiled widely. "Thank you, Doctor! I shall see you in the morrow." He grabbed his cloak and hat from the coat-tree and hurriedly exited, dousing the lamp as was his custom when he left. Wilson smiled indulgently at the young man's exuberance. Robert was newly married to a most beautiful young woman, and they were still in the throes of passionate love. Let the newlyweds have their time alone, he thought, for soon other rigorous demands will occupy their attention.
More importantly, he did not wish for Robert to witness tonight's planned experiment. The dread returned at that thought, causing Wilson's hands to shake with trepidation; he retreated to his inner office where a faint scent of lavender still perfumed the air to steady himself with a snifter of brandy.
The tap-thump of House's cane announced his arrival. Wilson heard him let himself in; he looked up only when he glimpsed House's lopsided shadow standing at the threshold of his office.
"Wilson! There you are," House said in a cheerful and boisterous voice. He nodded towards the empty outer waiting room. "I see you dismissed your lackey for the evening."
"I believed total privacy would be most appropriate," Wilson said, keeping his voice steady. "Please lock the door behind you."
"Scandal is overrated," House sniffed, but he locked the door anyway. He limped over to the desk; picking up his notebook, he flipped through the pages. "I see your notes are in order," he observed. Excellent." He placed it back down on the desk.
Wilson cleared his throat. "Before we begin, would you like a drink, House?"
House raised an eyebrow in amusement. "Do you offer libations to your patients before you begin?"
"Well, no, I--"
"Then no. We are to follow your procedure as closely as possible." He peered at Wilson. "How do you begin?"
"It is polite to begin with a few words of conversation," Wilson replied. "What topic would you like to discuss?"
"We are already past that. What follows?"
Wilson reeled inwardly--this was moving far too quickly for his taste, but he dissembled his features, remaining outwardly calm. "I retreat behind the privacy screen so you may prepare."
House's countenance grew mocking. "We are both men, Wilson, there is no need for modesty between us--"
"That is my procedure." Wilson retired to the screen. "Let me know when you are ready."
He heard a scoff, a thumping to the middle of the room, and the soft rustle of clothing being unfastened. Wilson's heart began to race. This was sheer madness, he thought. We will be discovered, and while House seems to care neither way, I shall be ruined--
"I'm ready, Doctor Wilson," House simpered.
Wilson snickered despite himself and stepped from behind the screen.
House was standing in front of the wing chair, his cravat and waistcoat shed, his trousers down to his ankles. The first thing Wilson saw was his disfigured thigh, a puckered indentation of scar tissue marking the horse's injury. But then his attention was drawn to--and Wilson could not help but think House had an impressive member indeed, which peeked through his shirttails and was already standing halfway to attention.
Wilson flushed furiously at that thought. He tried to cover his embarrassment with indignation, and averted his eyes. "Doctor House! Cover yourself, sir!"
House grinned and scowled at once, a truly terrible sight. "You do not mean to say your patients don't undress--?"
"I most certainly do!" Wilson placed his hands on his hips, staring resolutely at House's face. "Ladies require the utmost discretion during their procedures. They are not required to remove any article of clothing, simply to lower their drawers for access--"
"I am not a lady."
"It is still my procedure. Please sit down and cover your nakedness!" He looked around, and found an afghan, lovingly knitted by his dear mother, which covered his own office chair. He threw the afghan at House. "You may use this." He turned round.
House complied, though he grumbled to himself; Wilson heard distinctly the words "lily-livered" and "quakebottom". House sat down on top of the afghan in the chair and spread the rest of it over his lap. Only when he was settled did Wilson at last approach him, picking up his bottle of scented oil on the way.
He sat down on the ottoman and poured a small amount of oil on his hand. House wrinkled his nose.
"Lavender?"
"Its fragrance soothes and relaxes the lady." Wilson did not look at him. "It also prevents chafing during the massage." He lifted the afghan, not looking underneath.
Wilson startled at the soft moan when his knuckles brushed the inside of House's thigh. He paused briefly, remembering that some of his patients also made similar sounds like that. Most interesting. His hand next slid up to cup House's scrotum. He palpated the firm testes within the velvet-soft sac; House's manhood twitched against his knuckles.
House was already relaxed against the back of the chair, his arms spread out on the rests. Wilson slowly spread his fingers, investigating further. Pressing against the perineum, he heard a catch of breath; brushing along the underside of the already-engorged penis, a stifled moan. Tracing forward to the prepuce, retracting it to reveal the glans beneath, Wilson felt, to his surprise, a small amount of fluid beading at the outlet. When his thumb brushed against the head, with more pressure than he'd intended, House exhaled shakily.
When he looked up to measure House's reaction, he was gazing at the ceiling, his lips parted. Wilson froze, momentarily entranced by the expression on his friend's visage. But after a few seconds, House scowled.
"May I remind you that this is not a simple examination," House said impatiently, still staring upwards.
"Yes, yes. My apologies." Wilson turned his attention back to the matter.
Of course, male pelvic massage must center on the penis, it being the largest and responsive organ of the male sexual anatomy. After a moment's hesitation, Wilson grasped it, noting its hardness and heat. Testing, he gently squeezed and pulled his hand forward, then back, repeating the process. To his surprise, though the motion was tedious at first, it was not unpleasant.
As he did with each new patient, Wilson tested different massage techniques on House, carefully noting their effects, until he discovered the optimal method. For House it appeared to be a moderately firm grip with a steady up-and-down stroke, rolling his thumb over the glans, and reaching down occasionally to massage the scrotum. Soon House was gripping the armrests and he began to thrust into Wilson's hand, which in turn forced Wilson to speed up his rhythmic stroking.
House began to pant, his teeth gritted, his lids squeezed shut. Wilson saw a flush creeping up House's throat from beneath his open-necked shirt; it bloomed and lent welcome color to the man's gaunt cheek as beads of perspiration formed at his brow and trickled down his neck. The afghan over House's lap grew humid with his exertion; a faint tang of salt moss hovered in the air above them. Wilson felt House's thighs tense as House rocked forward. House did not restrain from vocalization; this differed from Wilson's female patients, all of whom invariably bit back their vocal responses out of propriety.
From the noises he made, Wilson judged House to be close to the male equivalent of paroxysm. Then, much to his shock, House reached beneath the afghan, covering Wilson's hand and holding it still as he pushed frantically into it. Wilson, unused to such nerve, was struck motionless. In short time, House stilled; Wilson felt his sac draw up, and then House shuddered and spilt over his hand with several forceful thrusts.
Wilson counted the seconds silently, starting with the first quick burst, and ending when the thrusts died off and House sank back, limp, into the chair. He let go of Wilson's hand, and his grip relaxed on the armrest; Wilson saw that the velvet underneath was crushed into finger-shaped patterns.
"I concede your point, sir," Wilson said after House's breathing and pulse steadied. "Your reactions were quite comparable to those of my patients. Although, as a rule, my patients are not so--vocal. Or assertive."
House, his eyes closed, grinned his peculiar down-turned grin. "As I thought, Wilson. As I thought."
Silence, save for their breathing and the merry crack of the fire, filled the room. Wilson, unthinking, rested his hand on House's thigh. Regarding his friend, Wilson found himself smiling at the smoothed furrows in his visage. Perhaps this risk was worth it, he thought, to see House at ease for the moment.
After a few minutes, Wilson announced, "Well, I shall retire to the screen now, so you may clean and dress." He pulled a handkerchief out of his waistcoat pocket and gave it to House, then retreated behind the privacy screen.
He heard the rustle and fastening of clothing as he washed his hands. When he emerged, House was dressed save for his cravat, which hung untied around his open-collared shirt; the afghan was neatly folded and draped on the armrest. He nodded toward the notebook lying open on Wilson's desk.
"Your notes, if you please."
Wilson obligingly sat to write down his observations. "What do you plan to do with these results?"
House did not answer for a moment, remaining silent until Wilson glanced up at him. "I can do nothing with them yet. I am but a sample of one--I require more observations to make a proper conclusion."
Wilson shook his head. "I do not think you will find other willing male subjects given this procedure."
"Perhaps you might like to serve as one."
He stiffened in his seat. "You are goading me, sir," he replied lightly, resolutely ignoring for the moment a strange little tingle that had made itself known at the base of his spine. He finished his points and rounded the desk to hand the book back to House, who pocketed it with a smirk.
"So, Doctor Wilson--based on your observations comparing the male and female response, what would you prescribe in this quandary, were I of the female persuasion?"
Wilson hid his amused grin, rocking back and forth on his heels, his head bowed in thought. "Hmmm. A thrice-weekly schedule, I should think, would be required. Certainly no less than twice a week."
"Then it is my misfortune not to be a woman," House replied.
Wilson laughed outright at his wit. House joined him with a wry chuckle and clapped his shoulder.
With the unexpected touch, the air suddenly seemed to crackle around them. Wilson's wide smile died on his lips and, feeling uneasy, he regarded House's hand on his shoulder--long, with elegant tapered fingers almost delicate in their mien. Then he looked up and stared at House, who had also ceased laughing, and who now regaled him with a most fervent and serious look.
Then House inclined his head just slightly.
Wilson's eyes widened in shock and fear as House's kiss caught the corner of his lips; but then House's mouth moved just a fraction to the left, and Wilson's eyes spontaneously fluttered closed as a fevered buzz filled his ears. Surely it could not have been more than half a minute, though time might have ceased in that moment--until House tilted Wilson's chin upwards, his tongue licking Wilson's lips.
This movement broke the spell which held Wilson in thrall, and he immediately regained his senses. Furiously, he wrenched himself out of House's grasp, his shoulder connecting with House's jaw in the process.
House, thrown off-balance, tumbled most ungracefully to the floor with a yelp of pain as his injured leg broke his fall. "Dammit!"
"What the devil, House?" Wilson wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Explain yourself!"
House brushed his fingertips over the red welt on his jaw and winced. "You may have just broken my jaw," he mumbled.
"If so, that is the least of your troubles," Wilson retorted. He pointed at the door. "Be gone, sir, before I fetch a constable!"
He did not assist House to his feet. Rather he watched, panting with his agitation, while House reached for the cane that had tumbled to the carpet. He slowly pulled himself up on the chair until he stood. His body was a study in agony, but Wilson hardened his heart to House's plight, scowling with disgust whenever House chanced to look at him.
After House had dragged himself out of his office, Wilson topped a glass of sherry with badly trembling hands. He quaffed it at once, then followed it with two more before he sank into the chair with his face in his hands.
~~~~~
Grimacing at the pain in his jaw, House hired a hansom cab to return him to his manse on the hill. There was much to think about, and returning to the faculty club, with its braying of idiots and the sour stench of old cigar smoke, would not be conducive to contemplation. Nor did he care to explain his injury; rather, he craved solitude for the unexpected upset in this affair.
Upon entry to his domicile, he called for Cameron, who flew around to prepare a cool witch hazel compress for his jaw. After a self-examination of the tender area, House surmised that the jaw was not in fact broken but merely bruised; oddly enough, the ache which overtook that in his thigh for the moment was almost welcome.
Cameron fussed over him until he could no longer bear it, and he sent her away with a harsh word. Only after ensconcing himself in his study, where he was surrounded by the comfort of his piano, books and journals--and only after a double dose of opium to soothe his raw nerves, with a decanter of whiskey at his side--did House afford himself the opportunity to stare into the fire and brood.
Truly he had not intended to favor his friend with a kiss on the lips after the experiment had concluded. It had, he thought, been a spontaneous reaction to Wilson's physical closeness--and it had been a most reckless, dangerous thing to do. House certainly had that reputation in Princeton, but even he understood the boundaries of acceptable conduct.
He tipped his whiskey glass, watching the amber liquid reflect the firelight. The experiment had been rationally derived; the kiss, not. Perhaps the kiss itself had been an experiment--certainly he would like to think it so, on his own behalf. Yet, if it were, it had been orchestrated by forces unknown--or perhaps, simply heretofore unacknowledged, he reluctantly conceded.
No matter: what was done was done. It was up to Wilson now to decode the meaning of House's kiss, and decide whether to reciprocate or not.
It would be a long night.
~~~~~
Alas, the three drinks did not soothe Wilson's growing agitation. Frustrated, he threw his glass at the stone hearth, where he watched it shatter into tiny glittering shards. The sound of tinkling glass drove him into further impassioned frenzy. He seized his mother's soiled afghan and shoved it into the fireplace, stabbing at it with the poker until it blackened and charred. House had dropped his handkerchief, with which he used to clean himself, onto the ottoman. The fine cambric had also been an heirloom; it too met the same fate. Finally, he ripped the velvet cover, upturned and stomped on the ottoman itself, and burned all of it, trying to eliminate any physical trace of his friend. He might have destroyed the chair too, with its imprints remaining on the armrests, but finally exhaustion overtook him.
Standing in the middle of the room, his breath heaving and pulse racing from his exertion, Wilson took several minutes to regain some semblance of composure. He pulled his cloak and hat from the coat-tree but he did not don them; he carried them as he walked towards his home, hoping the cool air would cool his inflamed senses. But he could not help but ruminate upon his quandary. On the way back to his apartments, on supping on bread and cheese, on preparing for bed, each minute, the most important questions hissed at him: What should he feel; what did he feel?
Oddly enough, it had not been their salacious experimentation with paroxysm that had aroused the ardor that so angered and confused him now; instead, it had been the kiss that followed. A simple kiss on the mouth--but executed with such unaccustomed warmth and longing in House's touch--
Had Wilson been so blind all the time that he had been acquainted with the man?
And if so, blind to whom?
After a few hours of tossing and turning in his bed, Wilson finally drifted into an uneasy slumber, wherein he dreamt of an unseen hand massaging his member just as he'd massaged House--a hand which slowly but surely drew him to the brink of heated bliss. Then he blinked to find House himself lying beside him, his startling blue eyes gazing at him steadily as they kissed, as passionate a kiss as Wilson had ever experienced--House's face a study of silent encouragement as he stroked Wilson's manhood. For such a hard-looking and dour man, House's touch was surprisingly gentle; certainly he was as prodigious in his touch as he was in anything. A scent of sandalwood floated in the air around the bed, mixed with the dizzying musk emanating from House himself, awakening and exhilarating Wilson's senses. The feeling of making love: the hardness, the heat, the exquisite ache in his loins that suffused his body with a fierce need, the feeling of plunging as the pressure reached an unbearable point--now he dreamt it multiplied a hundred-fold, a thousand-fold, under House's ministrations--
Wilson shot out of his sleep to find sticky warmth befouling his nightshirt. The devil--?
He groaned in dismay and slammed his head against the pillow. Spermatorrhea now? What was this insanity? Embarrassed and disgusted with himself, he tore off his nightshirt, wiped himself clean with it, and tossed it onto the floor. He then reached for his robe on the bedpost and wrapped himself tightly in it.
He paced up and down his bedchamber for warmth; the fire had died down to embers, and he ignored the creaking floorboards beneath his bare feet as all the while his mind swirled with feverish thought. He remembered, as a young boy, touching himself whilst hiding in the hayloft in his family's barn. It had been a brisk, bright spring day as he lay down on the prickly haystack with his hand down his breeches; he recalled the growing and pleasant sensation in his manhood as he touched himself. Then his father had caught him and whipped him for his unholy onanism. Being an obedient boy at heart, Wilson had not engaged in self-pleasure after that--it was not until a few years later, when he'd taken the milkmaid behind the stable, that he'd again felt a similar sensation of desire and release.
He had not been touched thus since his last wife, Julia, had been alive; he had not even consorted with whores as might have been expected of him. He had resigned himself to abstinence; it seemed as if all desire for the fairer sex had died with his marriage. He had subsumed himself in his work, his societal obligations, in anything that did not involve the carnal pleasures.
At least, he thought he'd had--until this night, when House swept the self-delusional veil from Wilson's eyes and demonstrated that every aspect of his life revolved around base carnality.
Get yourself under control, man! Wilson berated himself. This seminal weakness could only lead to madness. And--triggered by a fantasy involving a man--that was the worst of all societal evils! He read the papers; he knew what happened to those who engaged in those unnatural offenses. Nothing but utter ruin.
How could it be that his friend aroused such feelings in him? Worse, how could it be that he was willing to entertain such desire? The softness of their lips meeting, the brush of prickling whiskers against his own clean-shaven cheek, the salt-moss scent of House's skin, the stirring of his loins before he broke the kiss and wrenched the man's jaw?
Over the intervening hours between midnight and dawn, Wilson tried to discipline himself to forget that distressing dream. He bathed in ice-cold water, engaged in vigorous calisthenics, dosed himself with purgatives, prayed for forgiveness and guidance, and yet the memory of House's kiss lingered. It wove in and out like a spectre, thoughts unwanted despite the ablutions, the exercise, the purging, the prayer. Wilson tried to resist the allure of such thoughts--only to sink, exhausted and defeated, into his sitting-room chair just as the sun was coming up.
Yes, it was utter madness, and he was totally beholden to it.
Wilson dressed haphazardly and fled his quarters before he could ponder further on his predicament. There was no room for thoughts now--there was only action. He ignored the early morning air that chilled his hatless head, the pink eastern sky that heralded the impending dawn--his eyes were trained in one direction only.
There was a single light burning in the front room of House's manse when Wilson arrived. He knocked rapidly on the heavy oaken door, loud enough to rouse the surrounding neighborhood. The door opened and House himself, dressed in a deep green robe and slippers, was there to greet him.
No surprise registered in his expression--only profound certainty that was perhaps tinged with a note of relief.
"Wilson." He pronounced the name as if he had always expected the other man's arrival here.
"I must come in," Wilson replied, his voice trembling on his lips. "I--I cannot bear this longing any longer."
House wordlessly stepped aside to allow him entry.
~~~~~
Within a fortnight, Wilson had vacated his apartments and relocated to House's manse. Much to Wilson's bemused delight, the Princeton society regarded this event as a fortuitous, if slightly puzzling, happenstance. Their unanimous opinion was that the continual domestic presence of the impeccably groomed and well-mannered doctor would temper the ill disposition of the brilliant confirmed bachelor.
Wilson did nothing to dissuade their thoughts; his comportment was now considered beyond suspicion by respectable society and this could only serve to his and House's advantage. And indeed, Wilson's welcome interference in House's affairs did just that. Outwardly, their daily routines remained the same. House diagnosed the most refractory patients of the city on occasion and continued his vast number of studies and experiments as his whims dictated, while Wilson continued to provide relief to the desperate female patients of his practice.
Yet inwardly, away from prying eyes, behind the upright facade of the manor--in the seclusion of House's bed, under the sure guidance of their lips and hands--each sought and found in the other his own release, joy, and acceptance.
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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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