House walked in the front door of his apartment and slammed his satchel down on the nearest flat piece of furniture with a resounding smack. The sound made him feel a little better. He hobbled to the refrigerator and fixed himself a drink.
It had been a long, long day. In fact, it had been a long, long couple of weeks. No new cases had proved interesting enough to pay any attention to, and he had found it more and more difficult to go to work every morning despite the new motorcycle. Boredom was setting in and his mind began to wander…
"Hello, Greg. It's been too long."
House hated it when this happened. Having a brilliant mind came with a small price. For most people their brilliance came coupled with occasional crushing depression. For others, their extraordinary minds would drive them to drugs, suicide, or murder. House's problem manifested in a very unique way.
The handsome man with the strong profile and penetrating hazel eyes stopped drumming his fingers together for one moment and switched his gaze to his victim.
House sighed, "Doctor Livingston I presume?"
"Not at all."
The man was dressed in a dark suit circa 1890 and sat almost perched in House's brown leather armchair by the piano.
"You seem surprised to see me, Greg." The words flowed out in a casual stream of London-accented tones. He took out a modest pocket watch and opened it. "I, on the other hand, thought my presence was overdue." The watch snapped shut and the man turned a quick smile towards his mildly hostile host.
"This is a really inconvenient time."
The man was unamused, "Is it?"
"Yeah, I've got a friend coming over who charges by the hour, and I won't be able to enjoy her visit if you're here."
"Could we give this old tango amiss, Greg? It accomplishes," he waved his had mildly, "nothing whatsoever."
"Fine," House sat down opposite his hallucination, "Why are you here, Holmes?"
Holmes chuckled low in his throat, but the laugh died quickly and his voice resumed in rich, deep tones. "Wouldn't you like to know?"
This wasn't the first time House had imagined this scene. When he was young, the stories of the famous detective written so well by Sir Conan Doyle dominated his mind. They nearly consumed him. The fictional detective took on a life of his own. He and his imaginary friend solved many great mysteries together. His own house became the streets of London. 221B Baker Street was placed in his own room, of course, where he would receive his guests and listen to "the facts, just the facts" of their perplexing situations.
If ever a trip down to the slums of London were needed, the stuffy basement suited well. Any excursions to the country took place outside in their tiny backyard. The continent was, of course, the community park with the treacherous creek of Reichenbach Falls where Holmes nearly met his untimely end.
His father didn't like his adventures. House never enjoyed fishing or hunting or camping. He always preferred to stay close to home where he could practice his fantasies in safety. The imagination could be a dangerous, run-away animal at times, and that was enough to scare him in his own backyard.
House had thought he had grown out of such wild incantations and had tried his best to stifle the occurrences of the detective, but it only seemed to encourage the infrequent visits.
Now, across from him sat his manifestation: A handsome man with a deadly intellect…
"Not unlike yourself?"
…who could read his mind. The only problem with being so far removed from your hallucinations was that you couldn't read theirs.
"You aren't real." House argued.
Holmes shook his head of well-groomed brown hair.
"No. I'm not real in the sense that I can walk about the world as a free agent," Holmes fixed his eyes on House, "but that doesn't matter to you because," he leaned in, "I am as real to you as is possible."
Holmes leaned back again, ever the English gentleman with a penchant for the dramatic. House frowned.
"You're so real that I've never been able to get you to go away. I tried everything to get you to go. I even tried tying a string to a cup of tea and trailing it out the door. All I accomplished was staining the rug with large brown stains that scare the working girls."
Holmes shifted and faced House. "Then we might as well talk, dear friend, as we always do."
House sighed.
"What is it this time, Doctor House?"
House shook his head, "I can't."
"Come, come. I cannot leave you if we do not discover what is wrong with you." Holmes plied gently.
"When did you turn from the cool, detached observer to the prying mother?"
"I was always your role model; nearly always your archetypal parent. Now, I'm just your friend." Holmes looked upon House with compassion, "Tell me."
"You already know, or have you stopped reading my thoughts for the sake of courtesy for once?" House snapped sharply.
Holmes let out a barking laugh. "Greg, you know full well that I am your thoughts. And also because they are your thoughts you should be able to read them as well as I. But you choose to hide them from yourself." Holmes stood with a flourish and walked about the apartment. His voice rose and fell like a well-known melody.
"So after your thoughts build up, you push them back; a tug-of-war between you and your own mind. Then after the pressure becomes too large, the weight becomes too much, or the work subdues and a window is opened." Holmes bent down close to Holmes' ear.
"That is when I appear." He drew back again. "Always this struggle!" He swooped about the room like a large crow, working his way to the heart of the reason for his calling. "It can't be anything to do with work since there isn't any." Holmes reasoned. House chuckled bitterly. "It's Wilson again, isn't it?"
House didn't say anything. He couldn't deny the truth.
"Greg, why can't you just take the plunge? Would it really be that bad after all these years? It would seem it would be more of a relief!" Holmes sat again, not comfortably, but as if ready for flight again at a moment's notice.
"I can't do it."
"Yes you can!" Holmes nearly shouted at him. "What is keeping you back, my friend?"
"The fact that my homophobic, military father ruined all of my chances to ever be happy?" House tested the patience of his own creation which stared back at him.
Holmes waved the excuse away like the smoke-screen it was, "You are not fourteen anymore. This excuse is no longer viable."
"No longer viable?" House gawked at the Englishman, "How about the years of repression? The nightmares and my general negative attitude? Those are very viable."
"They cannot be excuses, Greg. You need to let them go!" Holmes pounded his fist down on the table between them. The noise was startling and all the objects on the table jumped, as if Holmes were real.
"Well, what about this?" House shoved his cane at Holmes who barely flinched. "What about this?" House grabbed his injured thigh.
"Let it go."
"Alright," House growled testily, "let's imagine forr one minute that Wilson returns my feelings. Just imagine that," House paused, "what of our relationship? I'm a terrible person."
"Stacy lived with you." Holmes rumbled.
"But I wore her down. She left me in so short a time…I couldn't…lose Wilson. He's the only friend I've got."
Holmes leaned back in his chair and paused as though deliberating. "You know, Greg. I went through this very same experience with Watson."
House snapped his blue eyes to his imaginary detective in disbelief.
"Oh yes," Holmes continued, "After my near-death at the Falls I watched from under a rocky ledge as Watson and the bumbling, local police read my good-bye letter. They all presumed me dead: drowned with Professor Moriarty, my nemesis. It broke my heart to watch Watson. He remained there for twenty minutes which stretched for a lifetime, just searching the waves and the spray of the waterfall for some sign of me. It broke my heart how he called my name over and over again to only hear his own echo. I had to cover my mouth to keep myself from answering. It was there, under that ledge that I realized how much I loved him, and how much he must love me. I swore right there that if I managed to return to Baker Street one day, I would tell him how I felt." Holmes let his deep voice trail off as he recalled the feelings that came with those three long years of waiting and dodging Professor Moriarty's agents.
"When I returned, I told him." House stared at Holmes awaiting the verdict as if it were a reflection of is own fate. "He said that he could honestly return my feelings," Holmes waved his hand, "but with the times and society the way it was, we could not pursue such relations."
House's hopes fell. "Holmes, if you're trying to convince me to tell Wilson, it's not working."
Holmes' powerful eyes flicked towards House quickly, then back to his own hands. "My point is simply thus: Your times and society are much more welcoming than mine were. You ought to let nothing stand in your way. You have limitless advantage at your fingertips. I envy you."
"That's not something I often hear," House sipped his drink, "most think I'm an insufferable bastard."
Holmes chuckled. "As self-loathing as you are, I still manage not to hate you."
"Which I guess means that somewhere deep inside I don't hate myself."
"Correct." Holmes nodded.
House reached in his pocket and pulled out the bottle of Vicodin. "Want one?" House offered his hallucination.
"Why not?" Holmes leaned forward and plucked a single pill from House's palm and examined it. "It's amazing what is legal nowadays." He tossed the pill to the back of his throat and swallowed. "Although, I always preferred cocaine tinctures."
"That is still very illegal," House brought the pill to his mouth, "unfortunately," and swallowed.
Holmes smiled sadly, "We even share an addiction."
"Which our best friends greatly disapprove of."
"Which our would-be lovers greatly disapprove of." Holmes let the words drop meaningfully into the silence.
"Well said."
"Yes," Holmes sat quietly for a few more seconds before rising with flourish, "till next time, my friend." He reached out his hand.
House shook Holmes' hand and then Holmes walked to the back of the apartment and out of sight where House was sure he would not be found till next time.