A/N: I wrote this story because a friend of mine told me to never ever kill House or Wilson ever again... and I never can abide by people telling me what to do. Really though, it sounded like a challenge to me and so for those two reasons I just had to write this fic. So this story goes out to Commader Rhade, without her it may never have been written! (snickers)

It's dark I know but I hope you all enjoy it and please review to let me know what you think!

Disclaimer: House, M.D. and all associated characters do not belong to me and I am not making any money off of them. Just borrowing them for a bit.

Fateful Nights

It wasn't supposed to end like this. Never like this. It wasn't right. It wasn't fair. Not that he ever believed life was fair, but damnit, this wasn't supposed to happen!

Wilson was dead. Irrevocably, completely, forever dead, and it was all his fault.

Gregory House sighed, watching as his friend's coffin was lowered into the ground. It had been a Friday night and the two friends had both gotten off work early and so House had suggested a movie. He knew a place, he had said. The movies and popcorn were cheap and there were never any lines. He hadn't mentioned it was in a more seedy part of town. Hadn't mentioned the drunks that populated the area. It had become apparent soon enough of course, but by then it had been too late.

The drunk behind the wheel of the beat up Chevy pick-up truck had lost control and had come barreling across the median strip, smashing into the driver's side of Wilson's Volvo. House had come out of it with just a broken arm; Wilson however, hadn't been so lucky. With the speed and force of the impact he had never stood a chance. The whole left side of the car had been smashed and Wilson along with it.

House could recall, with perfect clarity, the look on Wilson's face right before he had died. There had been blood everywhere, splattered all over the car and streaked in large amounts across Wilson's face.

"Wilson!" House had yelled, knowing, great diagnostician that he was, that there was nothing that could save Wilson now.

"House," Wilson had choked out, blood erupting out of his mouth and over his lips. "Help… me… hurts… help… House…"

Then he had gone limp and House had known he was dead. He had yelled his name anyway; a deep and desperate part of him not really believing the world would be so cruel as to take Wilson from him.

Wilson would never have been there that night if it hadn't been for him. Would never have been there when that drunk had taken his joy ride across the median strip. Would be alive today if it weren't for him.

House stands there at the grave of his best friend and knows these to be true facts. It was his fault and things would never be the same again. How could they be? Wilson was gone.

The day after the funeral House returned to work, because what else could he do? "You shouldn't be here," Foreman said when he saw House walk into the office.

"Well I considered going into the Pediatrics department but you guys were in here and I wanted to hang out!" House said sarcastically, hoping it would be dropped.

"You should give yourself time to mourn," Foreman insisted.

"But gosh darn it, if I start I might not be able to stop!" House sniped, pretending to start to cry, ignoring the truth in the words he had just spoken, pretending that he wasn't in fact afraid that would happen.

"Your best friend just died," Cameron said softly. "I think Foreman is right. You should go home."

"Luckily, Foreman is not the boss, I am!" House snapped. "Tell me about the patient. He's the one you should be concerned about."

And so he buried himself in the case, and then the next case, and the next one after that. It was different now though; he didn't feel anything anymore. Not even the satisfaction of a newly solved case and the intoxicating high that used to come with it. He only faintly missed these things.

Nothing mattered anymore; because all of his passion and all that had remained of the meaning in his world had all went away with those brown eyes and youthful face. They were dead, as Wilson was dead, and, like he sometimes managed to convince himself, as he was dead.

He rarely remembered to eat now, and he hardly ever slept. The people around him, Cuddy, Foreman, Cameron, Chase, all of them watched him deteriorate, not one of them knowing what to do about it or how to help him, or even if he could be helped.

House didn't care. He knew they watched and he knew they worried but it was trivial, unimportant. Wilson was dead, it was his fault, and he deserved to be dead too, this was what was important.

Life went on like this, if you could call it life. Days, weeks, months, they all blended together in a swirling vortex of misery. He solved cases and he used his razor sharp wit to exercise his tongue but all he really wanted was for it to end. Sometimes he would hold his bottle of pills and tell himself that he could end it, but he knew Wilson wouldn't want that.

A year passes and on the anniversary of Wilson's death House goes into the hospital like it were any other day. He tells himself he won't let it be any different, won't, absolutely won't acknowledge what happened on this day one year previous. After work though, he goes to the cemetery to dwell on that fateful night. He stands in front of Wilson's grave and tries to quench his despair.

It wasn't supposed to end like this, he thinks once again. It wasn't fair!

"It was my fault," he murmurs quietly. "I'm sorry Jimmy. I wish you were here."

Straddling his bike he zooms off, heading home. He never makes it there though. Looming ahead of him is suddenly a beat up pick-up truck driving at an insane speed and for a dazed instant he thinks it's the same one that killed Wilson.

Then he's lying twenty feet away from his bike, feeling the asphalt underneath him and lying in something that feels suspiciously like blood.

He's dying and as his blood gurgles in his throat he almost manages to chuckle at the irony. What are the chances that a pick-up truck would kill him on the anniversary of the night the first one killed Wilson? Statistically unlikely or not though, it is very fitting he thinks. Very fitting indeed. And really, he had been dead for a year now, ever since the death of the only person he truly cared about, in every way that really mattered. Physical death had just taken awhile to catch up.

The world is slipping away now and his only regret is that he was forced to wait a whole year for this to happen. Why couldn't he have died with Wilson? He didn't understand that. It hardly matters now though, he muses.

Suddenly, in the fading light a figure walks toward him and he squints blearily; it looks just like Wilson. "House?" a soft voice says. Wilson's voice. The man reaches him and kneels down and House realizes it is Wilson. "Jesus House, you look about as bad as I must have looked," Wilson says and smiles sadly.

"Wilson," House manages, his hand lifting up weakly before losing strength and collapsing back to the ground. "My fault," House gurgles as the blood spurts out of his mouth. "You shouldn't've… died… not you… never you."

"Yes me," Wilson says gently, putting his hand over House's. "It was my time then, as it's your time now. It wasn't your fault. Besides, soon you'll be with me," he says, smiling softly as he looks down at his dying friend. "It won't be long now, and there's no pain here you know."

For the first time in a year House smiles, blue eyes once again looking into brown, his body relaxing for the final time as the world goes away.