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  The Lost Shall Be Found 
 by gena  

 The Lost Shall Be Found........

 He never forgot anything he heard, or read, or thought but sometimes the
information got pushed aside for newer data and it took him months to get
back to it. That was what happened to Wilson's brother. Not Wilson's
actual brother, what happened to him was a mystery, but to the revelation
his best friend even had a mysteriously missing brother in the first
place. House, after solving a string of bizarrely baffling medical
maladies, found himself bored by the routine of coming to work each day
and sitting in his office avoiding more work. Even a partially successful
attempt at learning to play Jenga with bedpans hadn't alleviated the
stifling monotony of being the brightest star in the medical field of
Princeton, most of New Jersey, and, he liked to think, docporn.com. So he
sat contemplating the ceiling, twirling his cane, desperate for something
complicated, something spellbinding, something - ah, cute. 

 He could see the top of Wilson's head from where he sat, just a soft
brownish blur which occasionally bobbed out of sight only to return a few
seconds later. There was something about that motion, the bobbing up and
down of Wilson's head that quickened his breath. He could feel his heart
beginning to race, matching the pace set by his lungs and beads of sweat
breaking out on his forehead like inmates at some minimum security prison.
He knew he had to get a grip on himself, and not in the fun way so by
sheer force of will, and imagining Vogler in his underwear, House slowed
his breathing and forced his muscles to go limp. He risked another glance
at Wilson's office. The perfect head bobbed again but he was pleased to
find the sight had no adverse affect on him this time. He was a rock, he
was an island, and a rock feels no pain, especially after a couple of
Vicodin. House grinned, swallowed and let his gaze rest on Wilson's
distant figure, imagining his friend sitting in there as a little perfect
island of compassion in a sea of indifference. He liked that about Wilson,
the perfection he presented to the outside world. Few people besides House
realized just how far from perfect Wilson really was, but his parents and
sibling - siblings, House amended, would know the truth.

 House reached for the phone and in his best
unbearable-agony-being-manfully-repressed voice, one he had cultivated
through college, med school and various other gullible institutions, he
informed Cuddy he was too ill to do clinic duty. She bandied about a few
observations on his dedication to duty to which he, and this was the key
to success, stayed unnaturally mute, merely breathing into the receiver in
a remarkable impression of pained silence. He'd learned it was the silence
that did it, how could he, Gregory House - the Mouth that Roared, stay
silent when confronted with such accusations? He couldn't Cuddy reasoned,
unless he really was too ill or more likely in too much pain, to work.

 "I'll have Wilson take you home," Cuddy said. And that was the problem,
really, with having only one friend - when you were spying on that lone
companion you didn't want him driving you home and then tucking you into
bed. Well, once in a while he liked for Wilson to drive him home and tuck
him into bed, but those times were merely grist for his nocturnal
fantasies and had no bearing on the situation at hand. 

 "No," House said, managing to work his strangled tone into a fair
imitation of stifled agony. He gripped his cane tighter and popped it
against the floor twice, letting his mind race over a dozen possible
scenarios before settling on an implausible, but amusing, solution. "No,"
he wheezed, sounding weaker by the second, "he's got that meeting.
Cameron's here, I'll have her take me home." He gave a small, but
convincing gasp - convincing because he'd accidentally rammed his good
knee into the desk support - and prepared to hang up.

 "Greg," Cuddy said quickly, shocking him for a moment into pulling the
receiver away and staring at it, "- anything," he caught when it was once
again held to his ear, "let me know, okay?"

 "I'm fine," House said firmly, forgetting his ruse for a moment under the
wave of annoyance sweeping through him. Cuddy, however, chose to take his
curt reply as evidence of a frail, vulnerable state and a valiant attempt
to cover it. He resisted the urge to slam the phone down, turning his
attentions instead to his personal Habitrail and the three white mice he
had collected - well, two white and one black, he corrected with a smirk.
Chase, his most well trained rodent was nibbling on a coffee stirrer.
Foreman, whiskers twitching, had taken up position in front of the
whiteboard, obviously railing against Fate for his lot in life or at least
for House's part in his, while Cameron, the prettiest of the three if you
didn't count Chase's hair, seemed to be translating War and Peace into
medical jargon. Actually he couldn't tell what she was doing but she had a
humongous stack of papers in front of her, a scowl on her face, and was
wearing her "serious but still a sexy woman" glasses on her pert nose.
Now, to make like a Blue Healer - er, Heeler and cull the chick from the
herd and dupe her into his nefarious plan.

 "Yo, minions!!" He bellowed, unreasonably delighted when Chase nearly
swallowed the straw, Foreman knocked over the whiteboard and Cameron -
sighed. Damn, she'd been hanging around Wilson too much lately, he must
have splattered her with his Imperviousness to Irritation. House twirled
his cane, imagining Snidely Whiplash checking the train schedule and
watched his underlings march into his office. "Chase, Foreman, Cuddy wants
an overview of my statistics for Billing. That means you two are confined
to the bowels of this learning institution until you have collated any
files kicked back by the insurance companied." Both men stared at him as
if he had just told them to bend over and take it like men - which he
basically had. "Be gone!"

 "But-," said Chase.

 "You can't -," complained Foreman but another wave of his magic cane and
they disappeared with barely a muttered curse to give a hint they had been
there. 

 Cameron gave him a wary look, one which clearly said she would have liked
to join them in the safety of some dusty and forgotten fiscal pit. "I need
an accomplice," House said, grinning, "and you come highly recommended."
He snagged his backpack, stabbed his cane into the carpet and levered
himself to his feet. 

 "We - we aren't going to do anything illegal, are we?" She asked but his
smirk pretty much told her it would not only be against the laws of the
land but probably against those of nature as well. If she had been more
aggressive and less blinded by the hypnotic blue of his eyes, not to
mention the way his worn jeans hugged his slender hips, Cameron might have
had a chance to stop his diabolical scheme before it went too far. Alas,
she was only human and had no defenses against the weapons Dr. Gregory
House had at his disposal. And besides she thought she might score another
ride on the back of his bike. She did. Half an hour later, perched on the
back of a motorcycle speeding dangerously down congested roadways, Cameron
regretted her urge to cop a feel. Once they had stopped and she had risen
from kneeling to kiss the ground in thanks, she regretted it more. They
were parked in front of the a lovely home in a nice part of town, the name
on the mailbox said WILSON. 

 "Wilson?" Cameron, heart sinking fast, asked him. "Isn't he still at the
hospital?" 

 House gave her a look of pure theatrical shock. "Is he? Oh, my, however
will we get in?"

 "House. No, we can't," Cameron pleaded but House was already walking
around to the back of the house, trying windows and doors as they went.
"House, we can't break into Wilson's place. He's your best friend! Isn't
this immoral?"

 "No, why do you ask?" House said. He stopped at the patio door, jiggled
the handle and continued. Cameron dogged him, her confusion growing when
he came to the front door once again. "Ah, here we are."

 "But we were here a minute ago," she pointed out.

 "Then why didn't I open the door?" House produced a key and unlocked the
door. Inside, he punched in the alarm code, limped through the beautifully
decorated rooms until he entered the kitchen and began rummaging through
the refrigerator. "Ugh, you think that's spinach or has a veal cutlet gone
bad?" 

 "House? What are you doing?"

 House sighed, chin dropping to his chest for an instant before he shook
his head. "I'm here on a mission," he said, "I need you to keep a watch
for Julie and warn me if she shows."

 "Oh, and then what? How are we going to explain being here in the middle
of the day, alone, when Dr. Wilson is still at work?"

 "I'll just tell her we were having a threesome and Jimmy had to run out
for more condoms." 

 Cameron's mouth dropped open. She shook her head and stomped back to the
front door. House watched her with a smile, sometimes being an Evil Genius
had the side benefit of pricking the self-righteous tendencies of people
who should be above such things. He abandoned his culinary reconnaissance
after snagging an apple and headed for Wilson's home office. It was a good
sized room with a plethora of paneling, pine and plaid but Wilson didn't
like it. He'd complained to House many times that the whole North Woods
Lodge theme Julie had come up with gave him severe flashbacks and it had
taken House ten hours and a bottle of his best scotch to find out Wilson
had been a Boy Scout. Unfortunately Wilson had passed out before
explaining why Merit Badges made him break out in hives and since then any
time House asked Wilson just turned pale and excused himself. 

 Still, if Wilson had anything to hide - anything other than a missing
brother, several affairs, and a penchant for living life as if it had been
dictated by Barbara Cartland, he'd find it here. House made quick work of
all the usual hiding places; the desk, the drawers, and the liquor
cabinet, well, the liquor cabinet took a while because he had to make sure
Wilson hadn't hidden anything in with the bourbon. Hiccupping, House
eventually settled himself at Wilson's desk and heaved a sigh. His friend
was obviously a master at subterfuge, he'd managed to hide the existence
of this second brother for nearly ten years, House had been fooling
himself to think he could - A photograph caught his eye and, once he
recovered from whiskey burning its way down a bronchial tube instead of
his esophagus, House recognized Wilson - the eyebrows were a dead
giveaway, but it was the two other young men that had caused such a
extreme reaction.

 He picked up the framed photo, the one where Wilson had written ME AND MY
BROTHERS - DAVID, MICHAEL AND JAMES WILSON 1993. A shrill whistling sound
followed by a whooping bird-like cry interrupted his musing. Cameron was
shouting from the front hall. "Julie's coming this way!" House scooped up
the picture, downed the rest of his bourbon and limped from the room. He
just had time to reset the alarm and pull Cameron into the bushes before
Julie's BMW pulled into the garage. "House, I thought you didn't like me,"
Cameron purred, batting her eyes up at him hopefully. They were pressed
tightly together, a blush stained her creamy cheeks and she wore a dreamy
expression.

 "That's my cane," House said. 

 Her smile faded, but after a second she got a speculative gleam in her
eye. "Where could a girl get one of those anyway?"

 House's eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline but he didn't answer, just
grabbed her wrist and hurried for the bike as fast as his impaired
mobility would allow. They roared away from suburbia unscathed, undetected
and unmolested, the same could not be said of his cane, strapped, as it
were, to the side of the bike in close proximity to Cameron's inner thigh.
He insisted on dropping her a block from the hospital and making her walk
the rest of the way. "Sensible shoes," he shouted, engine whining as he
blasted towards his home. Cameron resisted the urge to shake her fist
after his retreating form, instead she hobbled back to work silently
vowing in the future to spend her money on chews and not Choo's. 

 For his part, House and the purloined photo arrived back at his place in
one piece. Unfortunately they were meant to be two separate entities, but
the force of traveling at warp speed and the fact he had the photo stuffed
down the front of his jeans, made removing it a bit sticky and not in a
good way. He peeled the picture from his genitals, uncomfortably aware
that this was the closest he'd managed to get Wilson to his naughty place,
and smoothed out the crinkles. He positioned himself in his favorite
leather chair, eschewing his normal accoutrements when looking at pictures
of Wilson in favor of the ones which helped him think. 

 House leaned back, cane twirling like a propeller in one hand, yo-yo
dangling from the other, scotch and Vicodin at his elbow, and Leon Redbone
crooning in the background. In 1993 Wilson would have been around 24, he
looked 12 which wasn't surprising since he only looked 15 now, but there
was a youthful optimism in those brown eyes that House couldn't recall
ever seeing in his best friend's gaze before. Slightly disturbed by this,
House turned his attention to the other Wilsons in the photograph. He'd
met Michael at one of Wilson's weddings, the one with live doves and bad
shrimp, House wasn't sure which wedding it had been, but he'd not been
able to look at shrimp or squab since then. In the photo Michael reminded
him of Daniel Jackson on Stargate SG1. House liked Dr. Jackson - a lot. It
took some effort but House finally drew his imagination away from
picturing Michael and James Wilson in those sexy jumpsuits talking about
wormholes and gating, and DHDs. He let his eyes rest on the oldest
brother, the one he hadn't met unless Wilson the Elder had panhandled him
down on Vine, but surely the eyebrows would have given him away. 

 A little taller, a little broader in the face, this David Wilson still
looked enough like `his' Wilson to be - well, a brother. Funny how
genetics worked, House had always wanted a younger sibling, someone to
torment, someone like him in mind and body - a brother would have been
ideal, a sister with stubble probably would have been an embarrassment.
Still, you'd never be lonely with a sibling. In the photo Wilson didn't
look lonely, he looked amused. In fact he wore an expression very similar
to his secretly pleased with himself grin, the one he'd acquired a couple
of years after beginning his association with House and discovering his
own natural sarcasm came off as charming rhetoric in comparison. House
canted his head, staring at the slightly blurred background in the
photograph, studying the shapes and colors for any hint of what might have
become of the missing brother. His mind soon drifted away from the mystery
to something more pleasant, like fantasies of him and Wilson and kinky
exam room sex. Caught up in his musings House was startled by a familiar
voice wafting through the room, one completely at odds with the muscular
form growling "spank me, Greg" in his daydreams, this one sounded high and
a little girlish with anxiety and not at all inclined to spanking. 

 "Wilson!" he shrieked, and shoved the photograph in the only place he
could think of, but getting it back down the front of his pant was more
difficult this time because there seemed to be less room for some reason.
House managed the deed, then realized Wilson must have heard from Cuddy
that he'd gone home ill and was here to check on him. Getting to his feet,
House flew to his bedroom in a herky-jerky lopsided gait that would have
been comical except for the fact - no, it was comical. He hurled himself
into bed peeling clothes off like a porcupine shooting quills, bounced
onto the mattress, then crawled under the covers in jeans, t-shirt and
socks. The exertion caused pain to lance through his leg but that tickled
compared to the pain caused by the edge of the photo stabbing his scrotum.
He could hear the unmistakable sound of Wilson using his key to open the
front door, followed by his friend calling his name.

 "House?" Quiet footsteps hurried down the hallway and the door to his
bedroom eased open. "House? House, you okay?" Wilson called softly,
entering the room and coming to his bedside. "Hey," he whispered, reaching
out to touch House's cheek. "Cuddy said you weren't feeling well."

 House squirmed under the concerned gaze raking his features, the gentle
hand stroking over his cheek and forehead. Wilson was the only person who
touched him anymore. Since the infarction and the constant attentions of
nurses and doctors, physical therapists and rehab professionals, having
people put their hands on him caused House to lash out, always verbally
but sometimes even physically. But right now, having those warm, strong
hands on his face and knowing that Wilson still cared for him, the only
lashing he wanted to do was take Wilson's god-awful tie and lash him to
the bedpost. His frustration and the cresting tidal wave of hot steamy
desire being near Wilson seemed to stir made him moan. House liked to
think he possessed a certain eloquence, able to convey a phalanx of
meaning with a word, a sound, a gesture, a look but the sound that spilled
out of his mouth at that moment could have been made by a constipated
sheep. Still, it had the effect of spurring Wilson's concern a notch
higher. On the down side, it also made the situation in his pants a bit
more dicey. 

 "I'm - I'm," House puffed, writhing on the bed as blood rushed southward
only to be turned back at the photographic barrier like an illegal at the
boarder, "a little tired."

 "You're working too hard," Wilson murmured, "let's get you comfortable
and you can get some sleep." House tried to focus on his words, really he
did, but there was something about Wilson's voice that kept distracting
him. Maybe Wilson had taken a hypnotism course or something but the next
thing House knew Wilson had stripped him of his shirt and socks and those
clever doctor fingers were working on the fly of his jeans. Panic swept in
and House grabbed his crotch. 

 "No!" He squeaked. "Uh, I mean, I'm shy." He nodded, pleased with his own
quick thinking. "Terribly shy. I had a bad experience in school, my pants
fell down in gym class, traumatized me for life."

 Wilson shot him a skeptical look, his hands going back to House's zipper.
"It's okay," he soothed, "I'm a doctor. You don't have anything I haven't
- HOLY MOTHER OF GOD!" House cringed as his jeans were opened and Wilson
got his first glimpse of the shiny, happy faces decorating his groin. 

 "It's n-not what you think," House sputtered and sat up but he could see
the doubt in Wilson's eyes had more than doubled - a lot, lot more.
"Really! I can explain."

 "You can - explain," Wilson repeated slowly. "You can explain why you
have a photograph of me and my brothers down the front of your pants?" He
sat back, the skepticism in his eyes spreading like a virus to infect the
rest of his face; his lips thinned out, his brows drew down and his nose
did that unattractive flaring thing but House didn't rebuke him for it
because the great whirring mechanism that was his brain had suddenly
become a mushy mound of randomly firing neurons and all he could do was
picture pressing his lips to the wrinkle between Wilson's abundant
eyebrows and tasting the skin there. 

 "Uh, what was the question again?" House asked, and he would have been
worried about his sudden lack of brain cell activity but Wilson sighed.
Most times when Wilson sighed it was the world weary
Greg-House-is-going-to-be-the-death-of-me-someday sigh House had become
use to and if it wasn't that one it was his
Greg-House-is-the-way-he-is-and-I-can't-change-him-so-why-am-I-upset sigh
but this sigh sounded different, maybe it was the tone, or the length or
the slight wobble it gave at the end but it brought his dithering mind to
an abrupt halt. House looked at his friend, his only friend and knew that
if he said the wrong thing he would lose so much more than a lunch
companion, a co-conspirator in his pranks, and a fellow soap opera junkie,
he would lose the one person he loved enough to endure the pain and
humiliation his life had become. House swallowed his pride and, praying
his obfuscation skills had not deserted him, said the first thing that
came to mind. "I was looking for your brother." Damn, not only had they
deserted him, but taken the car, the dog and probably wiped out his bank
account before hitting the highway out of town. Not good.

 "You -" Wilson stopped, mouth hanging open in a fair imitation of a
trout, then he seemed to regroup and try again. "You were looking for my
brother - in your pants?" 

 Damn, Wilson's perceptive powers rivaled his own. Mustering his best look
of disdain, House said, "Don't be an idiot. I wasn't even wearing these
pants when your brother disappeared. I just didn't want you to know I -"

 "-broke into my house, rifled through my personal property, then stole
the last photograph taken of me and my brothers to use as some perverse
sexual aid?" Wilson asked. 

 "It sounds bad when you put it that way," House pouted.

 "It sounds bad because it is bad! Jeez, House," Wilson jumped to his
feet, pacing beside the bed as he ran a hand through his dark hair.
"Sometimes you just astound me. I don't think you even know how terrible a
person you can be."

 "I do have feelings, you know?" House said but he was lying, he didn't
have feelings; unless you counted the overwhelming currents of lust, love,
fear and panic clanging around inside his chest like sneakers in a dryer.
Wilson paused, shooting him a glare that could have peeled vanish, before
shaking his head in resignation. House relaxed, he could see the initial
shock and anger had worn off and Wilson was beginning to work out what
House had done. He wasn't just friends with Wilson because the man was
gullible when it came to loaning people money, or had a streak of black
humor as wide as House's own, or even because he was the cutest thing in a
tie House had ever seen, no he was friends with James Wilson because
Wilson could keep up with him. He'd never before met anyone able to meet
him as an equal in intellect, humor, emotional baggage or amount of pain
they could take, but Wilson could and made it look easy. House smiled a
little to himself, he loved watching Wilson apply all he knew about him
and come to an answer.

 "You haven't had any cases in ten days so you're bored," Wilson said,
tilting his head to peer at House from beneath a dark wing of hair. "When
you're bored stray thoughts ping back onto your radar."

 "Oooooh, Navel metaphors," House murmured. 

 "You probably saw me, remembered what I said about my brother and came up
with your pathetic little escapade," Wilson reasoned. He raked a hand back
through his hair and House felt his pulse jump. Something about seeing
Wilson ruffled, be it emotionally or physically, made him randy. He
plastered on his most innocent face, the one he had stolen off a six year
old boy when he wasn't looking, and went into one of his patented contrite
expressions; huge blue eyes dropping, chin tucked to his chest, shoulders
slumped. House silently counted to thirty before using his right hand to
rub his ruined thigh, shifting uncomfortably. "That doesn't really work,"
Wilson said conversationally.

 "W-what?" House jerked his head up, glaring at Wilson.

 "That," Wilson waved a hand towards him, "the poor-me-I'm-in-pain" thing
- it doesn't work on me."

 "Sadist."

 "Uh, no, it's just you've been playing that card for the last five years
and I can tell when you're really in pain." Contrary to his words,
Wilson's tone was warm and he moved to sit back beside House. "You can't
con a con man, House." He brushed House's hand aside, laying his over the
damaged thigh and massaging gently. House dropped his gaze, smiling with
genuine affection. Wilson never ceased to amaze him. 

 "I thought I might find a clue," House said with a shrug. "I wanted to
find your missing brother, bring home the prodigal son and restore
happiness to the Wilson clan." Wilson's hand stilled and when House looked
up he was surprised to see Wilson had his eyes squeezed shut, that pained
parody of a smile he wore when he was hurting evident on his lips. "Guess
that didn't work." 

 "Wh-why?" Wilson asked. 

 "You miss him," House said simply.

 Their eyes locked. "Not as much anymore," Wilson said and leaned in,
placing a chaste kiss on House's lips. 

 "Does that mean we can borrow each other's clothes?"

 Wilson laughed. "That's sisters. I don't think I can wear your skinny ass
clothes, anyway." House shifted over on the mattress, making room for
Wilson to stretch out beside him. The next kiss they shared was anything
but chaste, it sizzled along House's nervous system until he thought a
seizure was imminent. But the only involuntary muscle movement he
experienced wasn't exactly involuntary and the movement part was hindered
by the photo. He reached down and pulled it out, restoring blood flow just
in time. "Mmmmm, is that your cane or are you glad to see me?" Wilson
asked, chuckling.

 "Thanks for reminding me," House murmured, nibbling along Wilson's jaw,
"I need to get a cane condom, Cameron molested it today." Wilson pulled
away, dark brown gaze searching his for a long moment and House could just
see the dozen or so questions forming in his friend's mind. Always an
advocate of peace and harmony, House stopped Wilson's mouth with another
burning kiss before he could start asking. 

 And so it was that the mystery of the mysteriously missing brother was
not solved, but other things came to light because of the investigation.
Cameron discovered she liked the hard wood. Julie discovered it really was
a veal cutlet, while Wilson discovered that failing at marriage didn't
mean you couldn't find love. And Gregory House discovered that sometimes
you really did get what you wanted - sometimes twice in one night. 

 .............or not.  
   Please post a comment on this story.  


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.