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  Three Words 
 by Jackyblu  

 House awoke from a bad dream, his heart hammering in his chest. The pain
took his breath away. Oh God, no. God please! Please, not again! House
scrabbled for the nightstand and the bottle of Vicodin that sat on top. He
opened the bottle and threw two into his mouth, swallowing. Something was
very wrong and House was terrified. He needed to call 911. More than that
he needed to call James. Both his home phone and his cell phone were in
the living room. He would have to get out of bed to get them. The cell
phone was closest, sitting on his piano where he had left it last night.
He tried to swing his legs over the side of the bed, but another sharp
stab of pain made him stop. He was clammy and nauseous. He stayed very
still hoping that the pain would lessen if he didn't move. His heart was
beating so hard he could feel it throughout his body. It was deafening in
his ears. Was this a symptom or just the result of the blind fear he was
feeling? He tried to breath through the pain. Slow and steady, in through
his mouth and out through the nose. In and out. In and out. The nausea was
building again but he didn't dare retch. He needed time for the two
Vicodin to take the edge off so that he could get to the phone and call
Wilson. House writhed on the bed, grabbing handfuls of sheets and
blankets. God, please! Please help me! He pulled one of his pillows to his
pain-filled chest and hugged it. Resting it against his forehead, he
mopped the cold perspiration from his face. He turned his head toward the
nightstand clock. It was three thirty-seven in the morning. He fought
another wave of nausea. He was shaking and his jaw trembled
uncontrollably. When would the Vicodin give him some relief? Oh God, it's
getting worse! House was panting. He had to fight for every breath. Tears
rolled from the corner of his eyes and down the side of his face. He used
the pillow to blot his streaming eyes. James. James, help me! Hugging the
pillow to his chest, House tried to lay on his left side in a fetal
position. It was too hard to breath on his side, and he abandoned it for
lying on his back again. It was too much for him. He reached again for the
Vicodin. In spite of knowing what any respected doctor including himself,
would tell a patient wanting to take ten more milligrams of Hydrocodone
this soon after already administer that size dose, he popped the pills in
his mouth. He chewed them, desperate to get them into his system as
quickly as possible. The biter taste and nausea from the pain, made him
retch, but he swallowed hard, refusing to vomit. If this didn't help ease
the pain, there was nothing more he could do short of overdosing. God,
why? What have I done?

James Wilson awoke from a sound sleep. His bladder was full. He got out of
bed and carefully made his way through the dark bedroom to the hall. His
hand searched for the light switch on the wall. He found it at last and
flicked it on, squinting in the light. He stumbled down the hallway to the
bathroom. He was still half asleep while he relieved himself, and then
washed his hands. While he was drying them on the towel, he thought for
just a moment that he heard piano music coming from the living room. He
had to stop himself from calling out, 'House?' Wilson shook his head. You
don't live there anymore, you idiot. There were some days when Wilson had
to think hard to remember where he did live. After three wives, moving in
with House, moving in with Grace, and then getting this apartment, things
were beginning to blur. He walked into the living room and turned on a
lamp. He could hear music coming from one of the neighbors. Vince
Guaraldi's, 'Jazz Impressions of Black Orpheus', that explained the piano.
Wilson had heard House playing it while in a very good mood. Wilson looked
around the room. This was a nice place. House had helped him find it. It
was situated perfectly, half way between the hospital and House's place.
There wasn't much furniture yet. The living room had a sofa, coffee table,
TV with DVD, both sitting on a pathetic bench/table, and a recliner. The
latter was for the comfort of his best friend, but Wilson would die before
he admitted it to House. It was the only new piece of furnishing in the
room. He had bought it the day he signed the lease. He glanced at the
clock, three thirty-nine in the morning. God! Even House wouldn't be up at
this hour. Go back to bed James! What am I doing up at this ungodly hour
anyway? Wilson answered himself with a smirk. I am up because I live in
fear of wetting my bed thanks to a certain limping twerp and a practical
joke he played on me some months back. Wilson had to chuckle to himself.
Yes, he had lived in several different places over the past few years, but
the best times were spent at Greg's. He looked back at the clock, three
forty-two. He had a sudden urge to pick up the phone and call House just
to wake him up and annoy him. Wilson grinned at the thought of expletives
being growled at him over the phone line. But then the image of House
limping to the phone, and then being unable to get back to sleep stopped
him. Sleep was something that was hard for Greg. He had trouble settling
his mind in the evenings. That's why he shut down with endless hours of TV
and piano playing. He just tried to occupy his mind elsewhere until he was
exhausted. That was a good night. On a bad night, his leg wouldn't allow
him the rest his body needed. Then it was scotch and Vicodin until he was
numb. Poor Greg. Wilson shook his head and then scolded himself. Way to
depress yourself James! The Guaraldi trio was now playing 'Cast Your Fate
to the Wind'. Greg had always found this piece too ironic to play, but
James had always liked it, so Greg played it when requested. To cast his
fate to the wind would mean that House would have to relinquish control,
and that was too un-House-like. Greg wasn't naive, far from it. He knew he
had no control over fate. But that didn't mean he wasn't going to give it
a damn good try. "Never give up! Never surrender!" That was House. Wilson
smiled to himself remembering how he had insisted that they watch "Galaxy
Quest" last Thursday night; pizza, beer, and Tim Allen. House had rolled
his eyes at him, but popped it into his DVD player anyway. They had
laughed, made comments and ogled Sigourney Weaver's breasts. It was a very
good night. Wilson looked at the clock again, four twenty-one. For the
love of God James, go to bed! He walked over to the lamp and switched it
off.

House tried to look at the clock again. He had to wipe his eyes on the
pillow to clear the tears away long enough to see clearly for a moment.
Four twenty-seven. His pain level had decreased slightly. After four
Vicodin it should be better than this. House wished he could control the
fear he was experiencing. It wasn't helping to ease the tightness in his
chest. He needed to get to the phone, but he was afraid to try to get out
of bed. Motion might increase the pain again and he didn't think he could
take it. He had screamed until his throat was raw. But no one had come to
help him. None of the neighbors had called the police. Damn these older,
better built buildings. House had chosen this condo for a couple of
reasons. The first was the address. That just appealed to his sense of
whimsy. It was after all, the coolest address in literature. The second
was its proximity to work. Not too close, not too far away. The third was
the building itself. The rooms had to be big. There had to be room for his
piano. It also had to be fairly sound proof. He played at all hours of the
night and he didn't want the neighbors pounding on his door or calling the
cops when he made noise. Well Greg, you got your wish. No neighbors coming
by to check on you, no cops coming to see what the disturbance is. He was
exhausted, but sleep wasn't an option. If he could have slept he would
have. If he could have died...Wilson never would have forgiven him. James.
He needed James. He would have to try to get out of the bed and limp to
the phone. Right now his pain level was about a six, still too high after
four Vicodin. Just try Greg. Roll to your side and off the bed. You have
to do this! You need help. He didn't move. He was too afraid. Just another
couple of minutes to let the Vicodin do its job, but he knew that was an
excuse to lie there. The meds were already in his system. They could do
nothing more for him. He blotted his eyes and the perspiration from his
forehead with the pillow again. He set the pillow aside and mentally
braced himself. Now! House gently rolled to his left side. He kept rolling
until he was almost on his stomach. Sliding his left leg from under his
right he attempted to reach the floor with his foot. He placed his right
hand on the mattress and tried to push himself up. The pain shot through
him like an electric current. His right arm collapsed and he fell back
onto his side screaming. Oh God! Please make it stop! Please! I'm sorry!

An alarm went off somewhere on the ship. Wilson was just about to take
Sigourney Weaver's bra off when the red alert sounded. Now awake, he
reached for the alarm and turned it off. Lying on the bed he tried to
remember as much of the dream as he could so that he would be able to
amuse House with it over coffee later this morning. He got out of bed and
made his way to the bathroom. He shaved, showered, and blew his hair dry.
Wilson remembered when he had stayed with Greg. The shaving House could
deal with, but the blow-drying of his hair sent him over the edge. He
refused to believe that any guy would blow dry his hair. Wilson had
countered with; at least I have hair to dry. He put on slacks fresh from
the dry-cleaners, a starched shirt and checked his closet for a tie. Which
one, the yellow paisley, or the red stripe? Easy decision. House hated the
yellow, as it had been a gift from Julie. Therefore, yellow it was.
Anything to annoy House was good. Wilson picked up his phone and hit
number one on the speed dial. House's home phone rang. When the machine
picked up Wilson left a short endearing message, "House it's me. If you
want me to buy you breakfast and drive you in this morning you'd better
limp your crippled ass over to the phone and pick up. This offer is null
and void if I don't hear from you in the next ten minutes!" Wilson hung up
the phone and knotted his tie. He put on his jacket and picked up his
briefcase. Ten minutes, he snorted at the idea. He always gave Greg more
time. 

He heard the phone ringing and strained to hear the answering machine come
on. "The number you've reached couldn't care less. If this isn't a problem
for you, leave a message." Beep.  "House it's me. If you want me to buy
you breakfast and drive you in this morning you'd better limp your
crippled ass over to the phone and pick up. This offer is null and void if
I don't hear from you in the next ten minutes." The message ended. James.
I can't come to the phone right now. I think I'm dying. If you don't come
by here this morning, I'll never be able to leave you a message. The pain
was increasing again. How was it possible that he had lived through the
night? Why had God made him do so? The nausea increased by a factor of
five and he retched. House tried to roll to his side so as not to aspirate
on the contents of his stomach, but there was none. He didn't have the
strength anyway, so he simply turned his head. He coughed up some bile
that made his throat burn and filled his mouth with a taste worse than
dissolving Vicodin. But what was worse was the stress it placed on his
body, his abdominal muscles, diaphragm, and his tormented chest. He
retched over and over and cried tears of anguish. God please let me go. I
can't...I can't. Please let me go! JAMES! He hoped for death, but prayed
for help and comfort from his best friend.

Wilson was driving his car away from the hospital and toward 221B. He
didn't have to concentrate on the road. His car could have gone there
without him. That limping twerp, Wilson was sure House had over slept
again. House was a shower, towel dry, throw on clothes and go kind of guy,
in other words, sloppy. Nope, those were the exact words! Not to say that
Greg couldn't clean up well. When House was cleaned and pressed he looked
like a member of the royal family, much to the annoyance of the other
gentlemen in the room who had to work at it, and much to the pleasure of
the ladies who were attracted by it. That is until House opened his mouth.
Then he could clear a room. Greg had it in him to be charming. He had been
so at Wilson's second wedding. That had won him an all-night stay with the
maid of honor, which ended abruptly the next morning when Greg became
House again. Wilson remembered how House had explained the evening to him
later, "Score! Double overtime. No harm, no foul." In other words, an
engaging evening full of heavy breathing, twisted bed covers and him
forgetting her name the next day. Wilson took his cell phone and pushed
one on the speed dial, and thought again for the thousandth time, what
does it say about me that I have placed Greg's number a priority above the
hospital, and my parents? He knew that the same was true for Greg. Wilson
was number one on House's cell and home phone. I guess that speaks to our
screwed-up friendship. Wilson smiled as the phone rang. "The number you've
reached couldn't care less. If this isn't a problem for"...Yeah, yeah.
"House pickup this damn phone! All right you limping twerp, I'm coming
over there and drag you out of bed! And I am tossing out whoever you're
with so tell her to get dressed pronto! Unless she has great breasts, then
tell her to take her time. Uh...wait. Crap! House my pager just went off.
Patient crisis. Look, I'll see you at work, we'll get coffee." Wilson made
a couple of left turns and headed his car toward Princeton Plainsboro
Teaching Hospital and away from the residence of his best friend.

House was soaked with cold perspiration. He shook uncontrollably with
cold, agony and fear. The pain had increased as the Vicodin of the earlier
hours faded away with the dawn. House tried to reach for the bottle on the
nightstand, with the full intension of emptying it. It had been a fresh
bottle a day ago. Eighteen pills left, eighteen times five milligrams of
Hydrocodone, ninety milligrams should put an end to this. Nine thousand
milligrams of acetaminophen was the added bonus, the over-dose his
colleagues had always suspected was coming his way. He wouldn't disappoint
them. Would they even perform an autopsy? Wilson would. He wouldn't just
assume that I took the whole bottle for no reason, no matter what anyone
else thought. He'd do it to ease my mother's suffering. Mom. God, I wish I
could see her again. I'd like to tell her I love her. I'd tell dad to go
to hell. This is my happy life pop; lot's to be grateful for. It was
getting harder to breath. The ringing of his home phone caused him to lie
still, concentrating hard to hear the message being left by the caller. It
had to be James! "House pickup this damn phone! All right you limping
twerp, I'm coming over there and drag you out of bed! Thank God! House
smiled exhausted through his tears. And I am tossing out whoever you're
with so tell her to get dressed pronto! Unless she has great breasts, then
tell her to take her time. Uh...wait. House's face froze in anguish. Crap!
House my pager just went off. Patient crisis. Look, I'll see you at work,
we'll get coffee." The last of his hope died with the message. He looked
at the nightstand again. The clock flashed seven fifty-eight; add twenty
minutes for the medication to go through is system, time of death, eight
eighteen a.m. He reached for the bottle but exhaustion and the shaking of
his limbs caused him to tap the bottle over onto its side. He couldn't
stop it when it rolled across the nightstand and onto the floor. Suicide
was not the fate that God had intended for the great Gregory House. The
ultimate score, God four, House three. He panted a hysterical laugh. Irony
always amused him. He thought of that line from Staind's 'It's Been a
While", "I've gone and fucked things up again". He began coughing, and
tasted blood in his mouth. Diagnosis confirmed, a pulmonary embolism. He
had thrown a clot from his leg and it was lodged in his lung. An agonizing
death was imminent. Shit!

The family of a terminal patient had just thanked James Wilson again. All
he had been able to do was make the patient as comfortable as possible and
convince the family that it was time to stop and let nature take its
course. No more heroic measures, and they had thanked him for it. He had
days when just a simple thank you from a merchant or at a coffee shop made
him cringe. He was beginning to associate the two words with death. House
would be handing him another twenty over coffee today. It was their bet.
One sided admittedly, a sucker's bet. House had been thanked a total of
nine times. Now if they had bet on how many times he got hit, then it
would have been a bit more even. If I had to give House a twenty for every
time a patient's loved one attacked him, I'd have to work a second job.
Wilson smirked, and looked at his watch. Ten thirty. The twerp should be
in his office looking for a distraction, a good time for coffee and a
recounting of his Sigourney Weaver dream. Wilson walked to the office of
Diagnostic Medicine and opened the door. House's three young fellows
sarcastically referred to as the 'ducklings' looked up expectantly.
"Where's House?" Chase asked him out loud, Cameron said it with her eyes,
and Foreman with the tight disgusted look on his face. Wilson glanced at
House's office even though he knew he wasn't there and asked, "He didn't
call?" Shit! Wilson was moving toward the door without realizing he was
doing so. He was through it while a mild panic was taking over his hearing
and motor skills. He didn't answer the kid's questions, what ever they
were about House. His legs kept him moving toward Cuddy's office and his
hand was fumbling for his cell phone. All automatic, no thinking involved.
He couldn't think. There was no room in his head for anything but the
worry that had taken over. He pushed two on his cell phone and heard
House's cell phone ringing. It went to the voice mail, 'This damn well had
better be an emergency, leave a message or hang up!' " House! It's Wilson,
and you'd God damn well better call me!" He reached Cuddy's office and
burst right in. "Have you heard form him?" Cuddy asked Wilson as Wilson
asked Cuddy. "No," came the answer again in unison. Shit! He turned for
the door. "Wilson? Where are you going?" He gave her the look House always
reserved for idiots and do-gooders. She waved her hands as a sign that she
was rescinding the dumbest fucking question she had ever uttered. Wilson
flew out the door.

No final answer and that pissed him off. Either there was no God, and
asking him to end his suffering was futile, or there was a God and He
fucking hated House. He really would have liked to know one way or the
other. The scientist in him was more comfortable with the notion of a
God-less universe. The dying man being slowly tortured while lying in his
own sweat, tears and sick was still hoping for a miracle. That miracle
would be to finally pass out and never wake up again. He was too exhausted
to be frightened anymore. He had no strength left for it. It would piss
James off if House left him without a goodbye. But, House had said goodbye
a year ago, Wilson need only open the book. Within the pages of Sir Arthur
Conan Doyle's ode to purest observation and deductive reasoning was
House's farewell to him. Placed inside his copy of 'The Memoirs of
Sherlock Holmes', between 'The Adventure of the Crooked Man' and 'The
Adventure of the Resident Patient' was an envelope that contained
everything House had meant to tell James over all their years of
friendship. In it was a single sheet of paper with three words written in
House's hand. The second word, he had underlined. This was the 'emotion'
letter. House had left the practical 'business' letter to James in his
piano bench, that one contained his final wishes, what to tell his mother,
what to do with his belongings, etc. That part was completed. All that was
left to do now was make the not so dramatic exit. He looked at the ceiling
as his heart spoke to a deity he didn't believe heard because he wasn't
there. I can't do anything more. I can't scream anymore. I can't be more
frightened. I can't feel more pain. I can't seem to die. I can't be
forgiven. I can't think why. House closed his eyes and the final tears
rolled down the sides of his face. He held the pillow against his chest
and it became everyone he ever cared about and prayed would think of him. 

Wilson stopped the car and was out the door without looking for traffic
that might come by and create a sudden opening in the Department of
Oncology. He was fumbling for his key to House's place as he ran up the
walk. He nearly dropped them in his haste to insert the proof of Greg's
ultimate trust into the lock. 

House didn't want to believe. If he believed he would have to hope. It was
another, 'I can't', on his list. Hope was cruel. Hope cheated and
betrayed. He wasn't going to be deceived again. He did not just hear a key
in the lock of his door. Then why has my heart rate just increased? Why am
I straining to hear the door open? 

Wilson almost threw the door open. What stopped him was the slight
possibility that House really was fine. If he was, Wilson was going to rid
the universe of the most arrogant, infuriating, son-of-a-bitch he had ever
given a damn about. "House!"

James. "JAMES!" Though screamed in his mind, it came out as an agonized
gasp. 

Wilson ran into the bedroom and collapsed on his knees beside the bed.
"Greg."

House smiled and wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. He exhaled, "You
heard me. I waited. I wanted to see you." He coughed hard and fought the
agony inside his body. The blood colored his lips and the beard on his
face. The tears followed the track made down the side of his face. He
struggled for those few precious breaths that would keep him with James.
Just a little longer. I can't leave him yet. Please let me have some
comfort before it ends. Give us a few minutes.

Jesus! Jesus fucking Christ! Wilson had his cell phone in his hand and hit
three on the speed dial. When the hospital operator came on he identified
himself and demanded an ambulance be sent for a member of the hospital
staff, that the ER be notified to be ready because he, Dr. James Wilson
was coming in with an emergency patient, Dr. Gregory House. He then told
the operator to page Dr. Lisa Cuddy to call his cell phone number stat! He
terminated the call and focused all of his attention on the man lying on
the bed. "Greg how bad is it from one to ten?"

"Nine", he gasped. House closed his eyes and coughed again.  James! 

Wilson took his pulse. Too fast, too damn fast! He went from the bed to
House's dresser where he knew Greg kept a stethoscope just for giggles. It
amused the ladies he entertained when playing "doctor". He placed it
against Greg's chest and closed his eyes as he listened. Tachycardia, the
heart raced due to fear, and pain that was too great for his body to
endure. Wilson looked at the nightstand for the Vicodin; when he didn't
see it he was alarmed, and then he noticed it on the floor and reached
down to pick it up, his mouth dry. It was nearly full. Oh Greg, you poor
bastard, how long have you suffered like this? All night? I never should
have moved. "Greg, where is it? I need to get your pain under control.
Where is the box? Greg!"

House moved his eyes to Wilson's face. Yes, please take away my pain.
"Top. Bookshelf." He gasped out the two words and closed his eyes.

Wilson knew where to look now. He knew Greg better than anyone alive. The
same was true in reverse of course. No, not really. James could never let
that happen. If Greg knew everything, Wilson would no longer intrigue him.
Puzzle solved he would grow bored and move on. That was simply
unacceptable in the life of James Wilson. There must always be a House to
come home to. Wilson dragged over a chair and climbed up. He found it
right away, the grey metal box behind the copy of 'Holmes'. In spite of
everything, he had to smile. Leave it to House to hide a morphine kit
behind a book devoted to the intellectual exploits of the greatest
fictional, drug addicted crime diagnostician of all time. He pulled the
box down but accidentally dislodged Sir Arthur's tome knocking it to the
floor, where it fell open to a place Greg had marked with an envelope. In
his haste to return to the bedroom, he nearly ignored the book and it's
contents, then he noticed that his name was printed neatly on the front of
the standard size white envelope. Curiosity made him pick it up. Haste
made him shove it into his pocket. He rushed back to the bed and gently
took Greg's arm. He placed the tourniquet around the upper left arm and
used an alcohol wipe to cleanse the injection site. He carefully measured
the dosage into the syringe and gave the injection. Wilson removed the
tourniquet and went into the bathroom to dispose of the used items. His
cell rang, Cuddy. 

"What the fuck does stat mean to you!" 

"I got three stat messages! I took them in order. I take it you found him
and your cursing means he's in bad shape."

Wilson softened his tone; "He suffered all night with pain in his chest at
a scale of eight or more. He's thrown a clot, Lisa."

He called me Lisa. House. Oh my God! "Pulmonary embolism. I'll have an OR
standing by." She hung up the phone and allowed herself one moment to
feel, one moment to permit a tear, one moment to acknowledge the hurt in
her stomach. Hold on House, if you can.

Wilson returned and sat on the bed next to House. He knew instinctively
what was needed. Not the doctoring part, the caring part. He gently
cradled Greg in his arms. He watched the rise and fall of his chest and
noticed that although it was labored it was less desperate. He could feel
House's body relaxing somewhat. You twerp. Why does shit always seem to
happen to you? You are the very definition of bad Karma. House coughed
peppering blood on the pillow he used as his comfort before James'
arrival. Wilson supported him and rubbed his back until the hacking
ceased. "Soon Greg. They'll be here soon."

The coughing subsided for the moment. Every breath House took was fresh
pain to be unearthed and examined. Fortunately, the morphine dulled his
senses enough that each new agonizing discovery was simply tossed onto a
pile as if he were a careless anthropologist looking for something better.
He'd get to those shards later. Not worthy of his time right now. Now he
had what he wanted. The pain was receding and James was here. If he closed
his eyes now, it would be all right. The cosmic, all right. The
absolution, all right. The James Wilson, all right. House completely
relaxed in Wilson's arms and waited for it to be all right.

You'd better not think of leaving me now. We're going to beat this thing.
I know you're tired. I know you've fought longer than anyone had a right
to demand you to. I'm just asking you to stay with me a little longer.
That's what he thought. Those were the thoughts of James. Wilson, however
informed the friend in his arms, "House, I reject your right to die! You
God damn well had better not leave me you limping twerp!"

Think you know a guy. I guess it's not all right with Wilson.
"Not-going-any-where", he huffed. The sound of a siren interrupted.
"Damn-had-a-speech-ready," he panted.

"Shut up you ass." Wilson murmured affectionately.

"Mor-on", House breathed.

"Jerk." Wilson grinned.

"Sch-muck." House smiled slightly.

"Wanker." Wilson tilted his head and met House's eyes, saying with mock
seriousness, "I think we're out of sync here."

"Sor-ry. Want-to-re-start?" He puffed.

"No time. Our ride is here." He eased himself off of House's bed and
hurried to the door to admit the paramedics. A curious neighbor walked up,
"Is there something wrong with Dr. House?" Wilson closed the door in the
man's face.

"This guy's really out of it. Did he OD?" the tech asked. 

"This guy is Dr. Gregory House, I am his physician, Dr. James Wilson. He
has a pulmonary embolism in the right upper lobe. The patient has been
administered morphine IV for the extreme pain. We," he pointed at House
and himself, "both concur on the diagnosis and the administering of pain
medication. If we need a third opinion, we'll let you know."

"Ea-sy-big-guy. Don't-piss-off-the-people-who've-come-to-help-me." House
managed to wink at Wilson. The expression said; 'You are so me right now'.

The paramedics did a more than adequate job of moving House onto a
stretcher and into the ambulance. Wilson climbed in and called Cuddy to
let her know that they were on their way. She would be in the ER waiting.
As if anyone could stop her. House was laying quietly, while the
paramedics checked his vitals. They would be at PPTH shortly and for a few
minutes, Wilson had nothing to do. His mind meandered as minds have an
irritating habit of doing when you're very troubled or tired, or both. It
made a quick stop at the book lying on the living room floor. The letter.
Wilson reached in his pocket and then cast a guilty look at House. He had
no doubt that Greg had meant for him to find this sometime in the future,
but as of this moment the future was still an open question. Wilson
decided to cast his fate to the wind. He opened the envelope and unfolded
the paper. His eyes stung with tears when he read the three words House
had written. He had underlined the second one. House meant every word, and
James was touched to the point of profound pain. You twerp. You limping
twerp. He folded the paper and returned it to the envelope. He looked at
House. So do I. 

The stop at the ER was almost procedural; a quick history from Wilson, IV
line inserted, oxygen given, Cuddy hovering anxiously, House trying to
thank her for bringing the 'twins' by for a visit, then passing out and
scaring the shit out of everyone. He opened his eyes and James half
expected him to say, 'Psyche!'

The move to the OR was a blur. Wilson had a couple of clear memories.
Cuddy kissing House on the forehead. House had to live just to hold that
over her head for an uncomfortably long time. He recalled taking Greg's
hand and squeezing it adding a promise that he would see him in recovery.
His next memory was sitting in the observation area next to Cuddy. He
looked over his shoulder and was slightly surprised to see doctors
Cameron, Chase and Foreman. He wasn't surprised that they were here. 'Dad'
was sick after all. He just had no recollection of them coming into the
room. They must have said something to him, right? Maybe not. Maybe they
didn't want to bother the adults with questions. He glanced down and was
surprised again. He was holding Lisa's hand. When had that happened? She
squeezed his hand not because she was trying to comfort but because
something had happened in the operating room that had bothered her. Wilson
immediately focused on the monitors. He could feel the ducklings leaning
forward in their seats. He saw a subtle increase in activity from the
doctors and nurses below. Well-rehearsed procedures used during
emergencies. Shit! Greg's heart rate was dropping. Not again! God please,
not again! Wilson couldn't just sit there while House gave up. He got to
his feet and went to the window placing a hand on the glass. Don't you do
this to me! Don't you try to leave me again! I read it Greg, and I feel
the same way. Please stay here a while longer. Thirty or forty years
should do. He looked at the monitor again and saw the heart rate
stabilizing and the numbers improve. Wilson rested his head on the glass.
The surgeon looked up and nodded at Wilson, who acknowledged with a nod of
his own and a mouthed thank you. It was done.

House opened his eyes and saw the only person in the room that he wanted
to see. Wilson glanced up from a book that House had leant him ages ago.
'The Liar', by Stephen Fry. Wilson had smirked at the title and asked, "Is
this what shaped your opinion on human nature?" House had smirked in
return, "Read it and find out." House had awakened to the sound of Wilson
chuckling and making comments to the pages as if the author or characters
would hear his admonishments.  "That was very naughty. Shame on you
Adrian." House arched an eyebrow at his best friend and savior. "Like it?"

"It's dreadful."

"Give it back then."

"Not finished."

"You said it was dreadful."

"Want to see if it gets worse."

"You like it."

"I promised you I'd read it."

"That was a year ago."

"Still kept my word. There is no statute of limitations on promises."

"Yes there is. They expire the day the one promised dies. We got close
again didn't we?"

"Yeah. Any chance that you might promise not to do this again, almost die
I mean?"

"Can't promise that. The Big Guy upstairs seems to have it in for me. I
will promise to place my cell phone on the nightstand when I go to bed."

"No you won't. Just get a couple of extras and place them in every room of
your place. And charge them for crying out loud! They are not meant to be
disposable!"

"Is this what you meant by 'I'll be there when you wake up'?"

"Yup, more than prepared to bitch you out. We're you expecting something
else?"

"Guess not."

"Tired?"

"Yeah."

"Get some more sleep. I'll be here."

"Promise?"

"Yeah."

"Okay." House closed his eyes and returned to sleep. Wilson got up and
checked the monitors and IV line. When he was satisfied that all was well,
he returned to his chair, placed his feet carefully on the bed and took a
sip of now cold coffee, returning to the book. House was so right. It was
laugh out loud funny, and Wilson had dearly needed to laugh this time.
He'd enjoy throwing quotes back and forth with Greg when he was better.

Dr. Lisa Cuddy opened the glass door to the room. "How is he?" She came in
the rest of the way.

"Sleeping. Everything looks good."

"He has more lives than a cat. I can't believe he endured that pain for an
entire night. It should have killed him."

"He's stubborn. He wouldn't leave without saying good bye." Wilson looked
at House the entire time he said this though he addressed his remarks to
Cuddy.

She snorted a laugh, "Stubborn is his middle name." She smiled at Wilson,
"No really, it is! Gregory Stubborn House."

Wilson smiled at her. She pulled something white out of her lab coat
pocket. "You dropped this when you jumped up and went to the observation
window." She squeezed his arm and handed him the envelope, gave him
another smile and left the room. 

He knew she hadn't read it. She was too classy for that. It was private
between Greg and himself. He opened it and read the three words that meant
everything. It was everything House felt about him and everything he felt
for House. No platitudes, nothing profound, nothing dripping with
sentiment and prose, just a simple declaration between them, just three
words that would link them to the end. I do care. Wilson smiled and put
the treasured letter away.

  
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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.