Home Is Where They Dry Your Tears    The House Fan Fiction Archive	
Home

 Quicksearch
 Search Engine
 Random Story

 Upload Story

      	

  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.  
   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.