"I've got one friend lying across from me, I did not choose him, and he did not choose me.
We've got no chance of recovery."
Wilson sat in his office, staring at the wall in front of him, imagining the balcony, he had not been out there since it had happened, and he found that he couldn't.
He could hear House occasionally, yelling at his fellows, or playing his music and his heart lurched every time, just like every time he smelled her perfume everything came flooding back to him, what he had searched his whole life for, and what had been taken away.
They had come to comfort him at first, House's new team as well as Cuddy, Cameron, Chase and even Foreman after the funeral they had surrounded him, offering him words of friendship, telling him how he would be in their prays, but they were empty words.
He had even saw House on the outskirts staring at them from a distance before he had limped away and before Wilson had turned his back.
If only he hadn't have been drinking! If only the bus had stopped, if she hadn't been taking those damn pills or if they had gotten to her sooner.
That was the problem though, there were too many ifs, to many scenarios that ran through his mind day and night, taunting him with a reality that could never be.
He let out a sob and buried his head in his arms, knowing he was alone now, he had finally pushed House away, but not for reasons he had ever seen coming.
He was alone, and unaware of the figure watching him.
--
He sat at home, on the bed that still smelled like her and prayed, tears streamed his face as he held the bottle in front of him, and he could swear the pills were whispering to him, taunting him.
Do it, you have nothing to live for, Amber's gone, you're alone. You're alone, you're alone, you're alone!
"Stop it!" he yelled, his voice echoing around the room brought him part way back to reality. The grief was crushing him now, and he breathed in ragged breathes, he wiped his eyes with his sleeves and noticed that he wore the lavender shirt, he tore it off, leaving him in his white t-shirt.
That shirt is all you have left of her, pathetic really isn't it? That's what your life has become, torn from you and tossed aside.
He struggled to breathe now as he clutched the bottle tighter, turning his knuckles white.
Should it really be this hard? To move on, should it feel like your heart is being ripped out every single day, to feel this crushing sensation that suffocates you, makes you numb to everything but your own pain.
He picked up the phone, he didn't want to, but he knew he had to leave some one a message, "House," he croaked, realising that he had gotten the answer phone, "I'm…I cant….I'm sorry." He hung up, he knew it wasn't clear, but that didn't matter anymore, he would be able to figure out its meaning in the morning.
He lay back down on the bed, still holding on to the bottle; it was his life line, something that could end his pain.
He popped the lid, and began counting.
--
House stepped into his apartment dumping his jacket on the floor and limping to the couch; he popped two vicodin and noticed that his answering machine was flashing.
He debated whether or not it would be Cuddy and sighed if it was he could deny getting the message, using his cane to smash the play button, hoping he hit it rather than break his machine.
"House," he heard Wilson's voice ring out in to his apartment and he sat up straighter, he heard the anguish in his voice, "I'm…I cant….I'm sorry." The line went dead, and House's insides turned cold.
"Shit," he whispered.
--
Wilson didn't even hear the door open; he had forgotten who had keys. He didn't hear the thud of cane against the carpet. He only felt someone tried to grab the half empty bottle from his hands, they wrenched it from him.
"What the hell are you doing?" House snarled, as Wilson dived for the bottle, he needed it, it was the only way he could end his pain, the only way.
House grabbed him, and they both fell to the bed, House hissed in pain as his leg seemed to explode, but he held on to Wilson tighter than he had held on to anything else, he felt him tremble, felt the sobs racked his body as he gave up in House's arms.
"This..wasn't" Wilson mumbled, the world seemed to spin and slip away from him but House knew what he meant, this wasn't the way things were meant to happen, it was wasn't pretty young doctors, with wonder boy oncologist boyfriends that were meant to die. It was the old, angry, cynical crippled bastards that were meant to die in crashes, so they would be missed less and the lives they leave behind could carry on with out their burden.
"If I could change it I could," House whispered, guilt consumed him as he watched Wilson break.
"I loved her," he choked fighting back the wave of nausea, and House closed his eyes.
"Do you want me to say sorry? Sorry that I killed her? That I couldn't diagnose her, couldn't remember. I tried Wilson…I couldn't stop this one." He felt Wilson tense, he knew House was right, he couldn't have foreseen how this would have ended, but he hated him just the same, and still he needed him.
Wilson shuddered uncontrollably and House looked down at his slumped form.
"Did you take any?" House asked, looking at the bottle of pills that had been strewn over the floor, noticing that there were less than there should have been. Wilson didn't answer, and House felt fear grip his heart, "Wilson, did you take any pills?" He asked again and he heard a sob escape his lips.
"I was so weak, I couldn't help it, they made me, wouldn't stop….taunting, telling me I'm alone." He began to sob again and House pulled back, looking down at Wilson, "How many Wilson? How man did you take?" Wilson didn't answer, instead he closed his eyes, and he wanted to be buried alone, not take House with him.
"Damn it you coward answer me!" House roared.
There was nothing here now but darkness.
--
"Did you really want to die?" Were the first words Wilson heard as his eyes fluttered open, it took him a while for him to realise that it was House who sat glaring at him from the chair by his bed.
"I just wanted it to stop," Wilson whispered and House snorted,
"It nearly did, you flat lined." His anger hid his fear.
"You should have left me," Wilson said, turning away from him.
"Cuddy was the one in the end that saved you; she wouldn't let you die because of your own coward ness." His words were cold and hard, but in truth House didn't know how to deal with this, he heard Wilson flat line, knowing that his friend was dead, if only for a minute, and it made him freeze to the spot, unable to act, and it had terrified him more than anything he could ever remember.
"I'm a coward?" Wilson growled, and House nodded, "After everything you've done."
"I never wanted to die!" House yelled so loudly several nurses stopped what they were doing outside the room and he heard one of them call for Cuddy, "I was in pain, I wanted to push things, I did reckless stupid things, but I never wanted to die." House said, a bit calmer than last time, but still he was angry, is that what Wilson really thought of him?
"What about what you did, before you knew it was Amber?" He croaked.
"I knew it was important; I couldn't stop until I knew the truth. What about the stuff when I did know it was Amber?" House said, watching Wilson's face as he tried to process the value of putting your self into a coma.
"You did it for her, because you felt guilty," He finally said and this almost broke House.
"No." He stood up, and walked over to the side of the bed, noticing how frail his friend was, how much weight he had lost in the past week, how the spark from his kind brown eyes were gone.
"I did do it for her, but not out of guilt. I did it for you, because I knew you needed her. For once I cared." He left the room, leaving Wilson to stare at where House had been standing, his words echoing in his head.
I did it for you.
--
Three days passed and Wilson remained in the hospital, Cuddy not letting him leave until she was sure he was okay.
He had been tormented by what House had said to him, and his friend had not come back in to see him.
Is that how he could see House again? As a friend? He remembered little from his overdose, but vaguely remembered being held, and knew it had been House, he was there when he was needed the most, Wilson hadn't had to beg of plead.
House had just been.
On shaky legs, dressed in jeans and t-shirt, since he had told Cuddy he was no longer wearing a hospital gown he made his way to his office, the nurses letting him, but keeping a careful eye on him. He closed the door and sunk back on to it, breathing in the familiarity of everything.
He took a deep breathe and moved to the window, and opened the door to the balcony slowly, stepping out into the cool breeze. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the crisp winter air, finally feeling a sense of contentment, almost.
"Not going to jump are you?" His thoughts were interrupted by House.
"And have you moaning about dragging me back into the hospital? No thanks" Wilson said, surprising House and almost getting a smile from him, he looked past him into the conference room, "Where are your fellows?"
House shrugged, "I sent them home, they'd already done my clinic hours, didn't see any point in keeping them here."
They stood there in silence for a moment, and it was suffocating them both, "You came to her funeral." Wilson whispered after a while, and House nodded. "Why?" He asked and House looked hurt by the question, but Wilson knew that House did not believe in such things as funerals.
"I wanted my time to say goodbye." House said and Wilson looked shocked, "I didn't hate her, despite what you or anybody else thought, she didn't deserve to die in that crash." He looked at Wilson sadly, "That's not the way it's meant to be is it?"
Wilson felt his eyes burn and he let the tears fall, not caring about being mocked, "No, it's not." He said, "But that's what happened." Looking at House it was though he could sense his friend's grief, at how he had lived, while she had died.
The grief of not being able to save her, it had not been about the puzzle this time; it had been about the life.
He had tried so hard to save her, could he really be blamed? He would have laughed if she had not died, if the accident had never taken place. Pitying her for having to deal with a drunk House, but laughing at his friends antics, gently scolding him for getting that way, teasing him with Amber by his side.
"Thank you House." He finally whispered.
"For what?" House asked.
Wilson smiled, placing a hand on his friends arm over the wall, the barrier between them being broken, despite everything he needed House, as badly as House needed Wilson.
They were the only things keeping each other grounded to the Earth.
"Thank you for my time to say good bye."
Lyrics at the beginning are from the song "Hospital beds" by Cold war kids. This was one of those stories that wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it. I hope you enjoy it. Thank you for reading.