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Grief
by gena
Grief
Wilson had given him CrashCourse5 for Christmas and in a week he'd already made it to the twelfth level. Sure Wilson had reached the tenth but he could still whip his ass. House grinned and steered his car around a nasty obstacle.
"House."
Cuddy's voice impinged on his concentration sending the car slightly wide around a tight curve. "Busy, here. Go bother someone who's wasting time."
"House, please." He would remember later it had been the quiet pain that had caught his attention. House raised his head, looking at Cuddy. She was pale, her flawless face nearly white but her eyes were bloodshot, red rimmed and anguished. He knew even before she spoke what she would say and rose, drawn by her eyes to where she stood. He didn't have his cane, the pain of walking without it nothing as he stared at her. "James - an hour ago - the ER." At least he thought that was what she said. His hearing seemed to cut out, lost in a weird blackness rushing in from the corners of the room to surround him. He felt a hand on his arm and when his vision cleared a little House was shocked to find Foreman holding his left arm and Chase his right. He was half seated on his desk, his right leg bent, something sharp jabbing against his hip and his team the only thing really keeping him from slumping to the floor. A soft sound made him look up and for some reason Cameron had tears running down her cheeks.
"It's alright," he whispered. "I -" He stopped, not sure what he'd been going to say. It all seemed confused, jumbled into pieces that didn't fit together anymore. "Wilson," he said and then said it again just because it felt like the thing to do. "Wilson."
Cuddy put his cane back into his hand but Foreman and Chase stayed close by as they went down to the ER. He could see the cause almost at once, any fool would have known it was hopeless but those idiots in the ER had tried. Massive chest wounds like that didn't just heal themselves. You couldn't put a Band-Aid on a crushed sternum and send the guy home, could you? Broken wrist, both legs in a dozen places - no, it was a mercy this patient hadn't made it. Someone wiped blood from those high cheekbones and someone else pulled a sheet up to conceal the damage. And then things snapped back into place and House staggered. "Wilson." Not a patient, not a case. Cuddy was saying something, her voice low but rhythmic and part of his brain, the part which had absorbed Hebrew and Jewish ritual knew this was a prayer - a Kaddish maybe. He'd have to ask. But there was no one beside him.
They had a service, family, friends, former patients, all came and filled the seats, the low buzz of disbelief like a gnat you couldn't ignore. He was given a black ribbon, the rabbi explaining how this symbolized the grief and told him to rip it as they said the prayers. Julie gave hers an impatient flick while Wilson's mother tore hers with slow, painful movements. His father shredded the ribbon and stared at the pieces as if he had never seen them before while Wilson's brother tore it in two, not even looking. House couldn't do it, his hands lacked the strength. Wilson had taken to opening jars and bottles for him but he couldn't tear this ribbon of grief. He wondered if this meant his grief didn't count. He couldn't show it, couldn't wear it on his lapel like a badge, so it didn't count. In the end the brother did it for him, his high cheekbones and dark eyes strangely familiar but lacking the gently mocking smile House had grown used to. House walked out into the chapel with his grief firmly in place, and took a seat with the family. He'd heard the word avel, knew it meant mourner but wondered if anyone else knew it meant "limping twerp".
The chapel held more people than the synagogue and now it held a plain wooden casket. And a paisley tie. He had slipped it into Wilson's hand, curling cold fingers around it so that they might be warmed by garish design. They'd been alone and he told Wilson how stupid he was but it didn't change anything. He stayed as long as they would allow and then Cameron led him away with warm hands curled around his arm and waist. They went to the cemetery, a long procession that went no where in the end. He had to walk up the hill and by they time he got there House could feel something inside him twisting. Wilson's family stood on one side of him and his ducklings and Cuddy on the other. House wanted to stretch out his arms, letting each side grab his hands like a tug-of-war to see which side had the strongest claim on Wilson but for Wilson's sake he didn't. He grinned and thought about ugly ties.
Wilson's family invited him to Wilson's home. There would be food and covered mirrors and people brought low by grief. House shook his head, knowing that Wilson hadn't wanted any of it and Julie didn't want him there. She was the avel, not him. At least that was what he thought her eyes were flashing when they looked at him. So he went home and noticed that Chase had replaced Cameron as his keeper. House drew up a mental whiteboard and wrote the symptoms they must be seeing, laughing when he recognized the seven stages of grief. It should have been Cameron, she would appreciate the irony. Chase just shrugged and drank a beer. House went to bed but didn't sleep.
On Friday, Wilson's lawyer called. He needed House. There was no purple file but House figured it was bad news. They went with him, some kind of personal guard he guessed and then chuckled. There was no need to protect him. He knew what he was doing, just not the method yet. At least he knew until the lawyer gave him a box pulled from a small safe in his office. He handed it to House and left the room, his leather shoes reminding House of covered mirrors.
The letter was short and nearly unintelligible. Wilson had been born to be a doctor, his southpaw slant like a foreign language. House studied his own name for a moment, liking the stark up and down lines that looked like claws had rent the paper. He looked up and saw the anxious expressions on Cameron and Chases' faces and the sadness on Foreman's. House began to read. "Dear House, Sorry about dying. I hope it was from something cool and not from tripping over a flowerpot or something. If it was I'm counting on you to spread rumors that I was a spy and the flowerpot a bomb that would have taken out a city block. If you were responsible for my untimely demise, I forgive you. If you're dead too, I won't. I'm going to miss you and hope you're going to miss me. Just to make sure you do I'm leaving you $1986.40. Mr. Gibson will give you a check for that amount. According to my calculations a Reuben sandwich in the hospital cafeteria is $5.50, chips are $.89 and a drink is $1.25 for a total of $7.64. What I've left you is that amount for one year. You better use it, House. I want you in the cafeteria every day for a year eating a sandwich I bought you. After that you can do what you want but I hope by that time you'll have realized that everything I've ever done in my life meant nothing when compared to loving you. I can't explain it, there doesn't seem to be a logical reason for what I feel, only know that you have meant the world to me. I'm, glad you loved me and I really am sorry I've left you alone. You're the only friend I have, House, don't forget that but don't rush to be with me. Give me that year. I love you, House. Wilson"
Mr. Gibson had a check waiting for him and House cashed it that day. He carefully counted out $7.64 every morning and when the price went up for a Reuben, he cussed under his breath, dug out another $.50 of his own money and thought he heard Wilson laugh. He counted months by the dwindling pile of bills on his dresser and when he bought the last sandwich House took it outside to the table he and Wilson had always favored and ate in the sunshine. It was a lovely day, the patient Chase had found for him would recover and despite the brisk temperature the sun was shining. House tossed his trash away and pulled his bike keys out of his pocket. After only a moment's consideration he glanced up at the balcony outside his office, threw his cane and helmet at the base of the handicapped sign, climbed aboard his motorcycle and roared off. He was smiling at the thought of Cuddy reading the letter he'd left her.
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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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