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Home Is Where They Dry Your Tears
by gena
Home Is Where They Dry Your Tears
Sara Wilson frowned and lowered the volume on the television. It was after 9 PM and a faint rumble seemed to be coming from out front. "Honey? Sam, what's that noise?" She rose from her chair, touching her husband's shoulder as she went to the window. Sam Wilson woke from his doze and scrubbed a hand over his face.
"Mmmmm? What's that noise?"
"There's a motorcycle out there," Sara said. She turned and looked at her husband who got to his feet and moved beside her.
"Some kid?" He opened the front door, peering out. "Call the police, Sara. We don't need this aggravation." But Sara put a hand on his arm, her expression softening. There was something about the hunched figure she recognized.
"I think -" She stepped outside onto the porch. "I think it's Greg." A moment later the sound of the engine ceased, the headlight dying but the figure didn't move from his perch on the seat. "Greg?" Sara called and took a tentative step further onto the porch. Sam stood beside her, watching as the man propped the bike on its stand, and pulled off his helmet. Sara rushed down the stairs to him. Sitting, House's face was level with hers and Sara looked into blue eyes drained of all their vitality and a face haggard and made ghostly pale by the streetlight. "Greg? What's wrong? Is James okay?"
House nodded slowly but didn't say anything. Sara shared a concerned look with her husband who was heading down the steps. She knew House didn't like to be helped but he appeared exhausted, and slightly dazed. "Come on, honey," she urged and took his arm to lead him up the few steps to the porch. He didn't balk, or offer any explanation as to how he had come to be nearly a hundred miles from his home, just allowed himself to be led inside. "Are you - okay?" She watched him carefully, James worried about House constantly, his phone calls home were often rambling descriptions of House's actions and his own efforts to keep his friend safe and well. There was something about House that made James want to care for him and Sara knew he would want her to do the same.
"Do you want me to call James?" Sam asked. House shook his head. "Is there anyone you want me to call?" This time his expressive face twisted for an instant then cleared and again he shook his head. Sam shrugged and looked at Sara.
"Let's get him something to eat," she said as if House were a stray puppy they'd found on the doorstep instead of a world famous doctor. She took his arm and steered him towards the kitchen. House has been there many times but tonight he seemed uncertain, stumbling slightly as he made his way down the hall beside her. Sara kept talking to him in a gentle voice, saying how glad they were he'd shown up, how much they always enjoyed his visits with James but House didn't respond. He sat where she told him and ate the sandwich she fixed for him, drank the glass of milk she poured and never said a word. Sara took the opportunity to study him, noting that the light in the kitchen had done nothing to dispel the ashen color of his face. His hair stuck up in places and a cut, crusted with dried blood, ran across the knuckles of his right hand. He wore a black leather jacket and a red t-shirt, the grass stains on the knees of his faded jeans made Sara catch her breath. What if House had fallen on that bike of his and hurt himself?
"Greg? Did you hurt yourself?" He swallowed the last of his milk and stared at her. She could see that his eyes were a bit glassy, and the hand holding the glass shook as he lowered it. "Did you wreck your motorbike? Are you hurt?" House looked down at himself, swaying in the chair as he did but a moment later he shook his head. Sara placed her hand on his forehead, feeling foolish. He was a doctor and her only medical experience came from raising three boys, but the cool skin beneath her palm calmed her, just as her touch seemed to calm him. "Well, you look ready to fall over, honey," she scolded with motherly tenderness. "Why don't you get some sleep and we can figure this out in the morning." Again, House merely stared at her, but his eyelids had begun to droop and she could see he was fighting to stay awake. Sara smiled. "Greg?"
House rose, using his cane to push himself to his feet but had to clutch the counter to keep from falling. Sara rushed forward, catching him around the waist. House leaned on her, his tall frame curled slightly as he got his footing. She could feel him trembling but he straightened and moved along the hall towards James' old room under his own steam. Sam stood in the doorway looking ready to help but she waved him away, knowing House wouldn't want a witness to any weakness on his part. Sara watched House settle onto the side of the bed and helped him peel off his leather jacket before kneeling to unlace his sneakers for him. "You can tell us everything in the morning, honey." She urged him back, hesitating only a second before helping him lift his right leg onto the mattress. He lay down, and she pulled the quilt her mother had made for James' bar-mitzvah up over him. She couldn't resist brushing a hand over his forehead and kissing his brow as if he were one of her own sons. He might have been older than her boys but Sara had always sensed a vulnerability within him that had nothing to do with his leg, a sadness that would make any mother's heart ache. "Sleep, Greg," she whispered. He gave her a weary smile and closed his eyes. She'd never understood how James and this man had become friends but knew in her heart it was good for both of them.
Sara left a small lamp burning beside the bed but turned off the overhead light then eased the door nearly closed. She didn't like leaving House but knew he needed something she could not provide with gentle words and roast beef sandwiches. Fitting herself into her husbands arms, Sara said, "I need to call James."
"Yes," Sam said softly, "I think you do."
"Hello?" It was James but his voice sounded strained, exhausted, and she could picture him pinching the bridge of his nose in an effort to stop the headache which had to be building.
"James -"
"Mom, I can't talk right -"
"Honey," Sara interrupted, "It's about Greg."
"Greg!" Panic took hold, coloring the deep rumble of his voice, making it sharp, but as fragile as glass when he demanded, "Mom, have you seen him?" It had taken years to understand the depth of James' connection to House but it endured long after all his other relationships had crumbled and she knew she had to be careful or he would come flying apart. Sara had never shied away from her oldest son's failings; the hole inside him he tried to fill by caring for others, she saw the expression on James' face whenever he looked at House and knew it was the same anguished one he'd worn when Richard finally disappeared. He needed House, he needed to protect him and stop the self-destruction because House couldn't do it by himself and James had never forgiven himself for failing the brother he'd loved so dearly.
"He's here, honey."
"There? House came to you? Is he okay?"
"Yes, he's sleeping." Sara heard the breath rush out of him followed by a soft thud like someone falling into a chair.
"Thank god," James whispered and relief made his voice shake. "I'll be there in a couple of hours, mom. Just," this time he drew in a breath, "just don't let him leave, mom."
"I'll watch over him," Sara promised.
"Th-thanks mom," James said and the gratitude in his voice made her wonder what they were about to experience.
Midnight rolled in with a light rain, tapping against the porch rails with the same impatient rhythm Sara drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair. She'd persuaded Sam to go to bed feeling, with a mother's instinct, that although he loved James as much as she did he would be hopeless in the face of their son's tangled relationship with House. She'd checked on House a couple of times then pulled an afghan from the couch and sat curled in her chair waiting for the telltale headlights which would announce James' arrival. All kinds of images kept circling in her brain; she saw Greg's haggard face, and the way he fumbled his cane from somewhere on that motorcycle, James at 15 crying over his dying dog, at 25 crying over his brother, Greg and James side by side laughing as they spun the dreidel last Hanukkah, the way they could look at one another and whole conversations took place. She wondered if Greg's mother ever sat in the dark with her heart aching for her son.
Headlights swept over the window and the sound of tires spurred her towards the door. She watched James fling open the door of his Volvo and race across the yard. His feet clattered on the stairs and then he was holding on to her with all his strength. He smelled of sweat and damp clothes and his face looked nearly as worn as House's, but he found a smile for her. "Where -"
"Your room," Sara said quickly and watched as he hurried down the hall. She waited a couple of minutes then followed, and found James standing just inside the room, staring at the man lying on the bed. She could see relief in the slump of his shoulders, in way he kept his head bowed and slipped her arm around him much as she had Greg only hours earlier. "Ssssh," she cautioned and gently tugged him away, leaving the door ajar behind them. Sara held his hand all the way back to the kitchen, reminded of early mornings in his childhood when James would come to her, awakened by some nightmare and they would drink hot chocolate in the kitchen until he began to nod with sleep. She fixed the sweetened drink now, mixing cocoa powder, sugar and water and letting it boil before adding enough milk for them both. When they sat across from each other, mugs curled tightly in their hands, she still saw the scared little boy he had been.
James sipped at his hot cocoa absently, his left hand jumped in tiny erratic movements, a phenomenon Sara had witnessed during every crisis James endured. "House," James stopped, cleared his throat and tried again, "House had a really tough day."
"So he ran away?"
James glanced up, the stark expression on his face slowly filling with a kind of twisted humor. "Running isn't one of House's talents anymore," he said. Sara blushed, James' observation bringing home the fact that her son possessed the same tactless streak that House did. "Two girls - brought in by their mother," he cleared his throat again and Sara could see him don his professional demeanor, the shell he used to distance himself from things. "Vomiting, fevers, rashes. By the time they got to House both were dying. House and his team tried everything - everything but they couldn't figure it out. There was a piece of the puzzle missing -" He sipped his cooling drink, using the back of his hand to wipe at the corners of his mouth. "House - gets frustrated. It's - it's like watching an autistic child bash his head against the wall - only he's bashing away at lies, looking for the truth. I'd never seen him so - out of control," he whispered and closed his eyes. Sara reached out and caught his hand, stilling it. James looked at her with bleak eyes. "His team called me, I think they were a little frightened. He slammed his cane through the microwave when he couldn't get it to work." James gave a hollow little chuckle. "Cut his hand, blood everywhere. I had to stop him."
"How?" Sara asked softly.
"I took his cane, sent Chase running to the vending machine for candy. You have to get past whatever's blocking him, gratify whatever need he has so he can keep thinking." It was as if he were describing some elaborate and fantastic machine, Sara realized. James wore a look of total absorption, a proud kind of glint in his eye. "He gets stuck inside his own head. It's why he needs me - and his team. All those thoughts flashing through his mind, he needs a way to focus them, to connect everything that he knows until he can see the answer."
"And - he did?"
James nodded, a weary, defeated nod. "Chase handed him the candy and - he knew. The girls," he paused, looking down at where Sara still held his hand. "Their uncle had plied them with candy to get them alone. He'd contracted an STD from a prostitute in Bangkok then - then passed it to the girls. The mother knew about the abuse but was hiding it from her husband and her brother was afraid someone would find out what he'd done so he was slowly - poisoning them."
"Oh, James," Sara gasped.
"It was too late - they didn't even get to start treatment," James went on. He glanced at the clock behind her. "They died just over ten hours ago," he shrugged as if death no longer affected him. "If the mother had admitted the abuse all the pieces would have fallen into place in time. House doesn't like anyone, kids included, but he's good with them, he relates to them and watching them - die - when he could have saved them -"
"He hasn't said a word," Sara told James. "He's not said a single word since he got here."
"He said plenty to the mother. I don't think I've ever seen House so angry, he exploded. He'd been at the hospital 72 hours straight and was completely exhausted, really hurting. I had to do some damage control, I left him only long enough to talk to Cuddy and when I came back he'd disappeared. No one had seen him go and I couldn't find him anyplace," James whispered. "I didn't know what he might do - where he would go." He looked up with a thin smile, eyes brimming, "I never thought he'd go home, not to my home."
Sara smiled too. "Go sit with him. He needs to know he isn't alone."
James nodded, squeezing her hand and leaning over to kiss her. "Thanks, mom, for taking him in." Sara caressed his cheek and watched him head to House's side feeling as if whatever crisis they had been on the verge of had somehow been, if not averted, then delayed.
Everything was grey; from the silver white of smoke to the nearly black of charcoal, the world had been washed of all other color but grey. House walked the street he lived on, his footsteps echoing hollowly off the walls. There were no people, no sounds, nothing but the gunmetal sky hanging low over the buildings. He made his way slowly through the streets until he reached the sprawling complex of PPTH. Sooty windows obscured his view inside but House could sense commotion within the hospital. He pushed open the doors into the clinic and saw Cameron crying, his father stood beside her, shaking his head. They were talking, their mouths opening and closing but there was no sound. House stepped forward and watched as they turned to stare at him, Cameron with pity while his father's gaze held disappointment. He reached out but before his hand touched them, both Cameron and his father turned to ash, their bodies raining to the floor where they billowed up in grey clouds.
He turned away, needing to get away, but a heaviness gripped his right leg heavy, dragging on him as he tried to move. House looked down into the face of a young girl - his last patient. She and her sister clutched him; their small faces the same dove grey color as the hospital corridor. He couldn't shake them off, they cried and held tight. Chase and Foreman dashed into the room, their gazes fixed on House but when he tired to shout at them for help, but couldn't make a sound. Panic seized his chest; a harsh wind had begun to howl and it blew through the open clinic doors, stirring the ashes until his lungs burned and he thought he would die there in the midst of all those people. New pain shot up his leg, and when House looked down at the girls, they had morphed into Cuddy and Stacy, their nails gouging into his thigh, tearing his flesh until he trailed charcoal colored droplets of blood in his wake. Chase and Foreman dissolved and were sent spinning away, Cuddy and Stacy fell to dust as he watched.
Everywhere he looked people were crumbling, their bodies turning to ash and blowing away. Cuddy and his team were gone, lost on the wind and House knew he had to find a safe place, he had to find Wilson and together they could find shelter. House struggled on, instinct telling him Wilson waited at his office and as he rounded a corner, House saw a flash of movement. Wilson stood at the end of the hallway, grey as his surroundings and leaning against a doorframe, but the amused smile he generally wore was still firmly in place. House tried to move to him but found himself frozen to the spot, only able to watch in mute horror as Wilson's attention was catch by something and he turned his face to a large glass window set high in the wall. The dirty glass shook, buffeted by a wind that howled and scratched animal-like for entry. House watched the glass crack, a black fissure etching itself across the pane, and a moment later jagged shards exploded inward, glittering like knives as they tumbled to the tile floor. He expected to see Wilson die, cut to pieces by those deadly fragments, but his friend grinned at him, bathed in golden sunlight, the grey which had covered him washed away. Blue skies stretched behind him like forever and when he turned back to House he was smiling, beckoning. House moved forward, pain flaring through his leg with each step, lungs burning, trying to call out but not able to make a sound. Wilson kept smiling, kept beckoning, drawing House onward. House lurched forward into..........sunlight.
Sunlight streamed across the bed, bringing out the bright blue of the quilt which covered him. House blinked, stirring slowly as his leg began to throb. He reached out for his pill bottle, hand closing on empty space. "Here." A hand appeared over his shoulder and the familiar white shape of his Vicodin rested in a warm palm. "You okay?" Wilson's voice made him frown, random images of the past three days wavered at the edge of memory. House rolled over and stared at his friend. Wilson looked tired, there were smudges of exhaustion beneath his dark eyes and the shirt he wore was wrinkled and hanging untucked around him. "House?" He asked again, and moved to sit on the side of the bed. Wilson reached out and cupped his chin, holding House's face so he could stare into his eyes. "Are you okay?" House took stock and nodded.
"Do you want to talk?" It seemed a fair request. He could see worry in Wilson's eyes but denied the power of speech in his dream, House didn't feel like ruining the truth of silence. Everybody lied, even him. Instead of answering he took Wilson's hand and pulled him further onto the bed, tugging at him until Wilson lay beside him. He liked the warmth of his friend's body where it pressed against his and the way sunlight brought out a dozen different colors from his brown hair but most of all House liked the way Wilson's eyes glowed as if encircled by a hundred Kayser-Fleischer rings. He sighed, wondering what Wilson saw in this unforgiving light. "It's okay," Wilson whispered and wrapped his arm over House, pulling him in tight. There was a smile on his face and the glow in his eyes intensified as if he too saw something good. "You're okay." House closed his eyes and laid his head down on Wilson's shoulder. It felt good to be home.
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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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