Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
"The Stolen Child," W.B. Yeats

Prologue

James Wilson had always wanted to be a hero. As a boy, he had dreamed of saving the world; as a medical student, he had studied to save lives; as an oncologist, he had settled for extending lives. He worked hard, he made a positive impact on society, and from time to time he helped Gregory House save a life that no one else could. Those glimpses of reflected glory were enough. Not everybody could be a hero, after all.

But late at night, when imagination trumped reality, he still dreamed of saving the world.

Part One

Having House as a best friend meant that Wilson was used to seeing a lot of strange things. Plague patients, tapeworms the length of a garden hose, hermaphroditic models. It was all in a day's work for House. In fact, it was the only work House would take, so Wilson routinely scanned the admissions and ER charts for unusual symptoms, watching for any interesting cases that would keep House busy.

But he watched for more than that. House was reckless with his own safety and that of others. He seemed to lack a basic sense of self-preservation. And while Wilson knew his own sense of self-preservation was susceptible to a pretty face or a sob story, his sense of House-preservation was sharper than a surgical blade. It was an almost impossible task, keeping House out of trouble, but Wilson had always been a sucker for lost causes.

So when he walked past the Diagnostics department and saw two people in House's office that he didn't recognize, his radar pinged. The two men looked harmless on the surface, but Wilson never trusted surface impressions when it came to House. Their presence alone was a mystery. Strangers didn't just walk into House's office without security becoming involved. Wilson slipped into the conference room to investigate further, on the pretext of grabbing a coffee.

House's fellows were seated around the table, pretending to be working while watching the scene in the office covertly. Foreman was standing by the whiteboard, seemingly studying the random symptoms scribbled on its surface, but Wilson knew they didn't currently have a patient.

In the inner office, House was sitting at his desk, but he was leaning back in his chair, looking relaxed and casually interested. Wilson frowned, not at all fooled. He joined Foreman at the whiteboard, where he could get a better look at the two men in House's office. One of the men was dressed in a suit -- Wilson noted the cut and wondered idly who his tailor was -- and was standing back, arms crossed protectively. That wasn't unusual. House generally provoked mistrust from men in suits.

The other man was a different story. To begin with, he was wearing a military greatcoat, which was an unusual choice for New Jersey in the 21st century. He was also smiling, which wasn't the usual expression people wore when talking with House. The man in the suit was looking not at House, but at the man in the greatcoat, which was a third anomaly. Wilson couldn't remember the last time House hadn't been the centre of attention in his own office -- or anywhere else, for that matter.

"What's going on in there?" he asked, nodding towards House's office.

"Headhunters," Foreman said. "They're trying to recruit House for some special ops organization in England."

"Wales," Thirteen corrected. "It's based in Cardiff."

"Same thing."

"I wouldn't tell the Welsh that," Wilson replied dryly. He'd had a Welsh friend in college who had been fiercely nationalistic, except during England-Germany soccer matches, when he sang Two World Wars and one World Cup, doo dah, doo dah, at the top of his voice with the rest of the Brits. "House is actually talking to them?"

"They're apparently more powerful than the CIA or MI5," Taub said. "Do you think House could resist that?"

Wilson shuddered. House and powerful security agencies weren't a good combination. He suspected the CIA was still reeling from their brief encounter. No one ever completely recovered from meeting House, even when they recovered because of him. "I think the clock just ticked closer to midnight," he muttered. "Let me know if he causes an international incident." But as he was turning away, House glanced over and gestured for him to come in.

Wilson shook his head and pointed at his watch, but House didn't accept that as an excuse when it was actually true.

"Get in here, Wilson," he bellowed.

Wilson sighed and pushed open the door to House's office. "I have a patient, House," he said, smiling apologetically at the two strangers.

"You don't have any more patient appointments today," House retorted. "Wilson is the master of the socially acceptable lie," he told the others. "He wouldn't want to hurt your feelings, but he really doesn't want to meet you."

"Well, that's a shame," said the man in the greatcoat, turning to greet Wilson. "Because I've always had a thing for doctors." His eyes roamed up and down Wilson's body and his smile broadened. He held out his hand. "Captain Jack Harkness."

Wilson wondered if this was how Cuddy felt when House leered at her, but there was nothing salacious in the once-over, just honest appreciation, and a hint of familiarity. He was flattered, in a purely theoretical way, but was about to gently steer Captain Harkness's attention elsewhere when he noticed House's expression. The casual interest and amusement were gone and he was glaring at the captain as if he had tried to take his PSP. It never failed to amuse Wilson when House's possessive streak kicked in, and he wasn't adverse to stirring things up a bit.

"Dr. James Wilson. And I've always had a thing for men in uniform," he replied, shaking Harkness's hand. It was like touching a live wire. He blinked and looked closer at Harkness, wondering if they'd met before.

"You have a thing all right," House said. "Wilson is terrified of men in uniform. It's a Jew thing. Secretly he's convinced they're the Gestapo in disguise, come to take him away to the camps." He wasn't smiling any more when he stared at Harkness. "It's not a completely irrational fear, is it, Captain Harkness? Sometimes the people there to protect us are the ones we have to fear the most."

Harkness didn't take the challenge, but he stopped smiling. "Call me Jack. I'm not big on formality." He turned back to Wilson. "This is my colleague Ianto Jones."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Wilson," Jones said, breaking the tension. He had a lilting Welsh accent that made Wilson think of gently flowing waters.

"It's James. Or Wilson. Most people call me Wilson." Or rather, House called him Wilson and everybody else just followed his lead. Even Amber had called him Wilson more often than not. Sometimes Wilson forgot he had a first name. "What brings you to Princeton?"

"Business, I'm afraid," Jack said. "Though I can always find time for pleasure."

Wilson didn't know if Jack was naturally flirtatious or just trying to get a rise out of House. He suspected it was a little of both. He also suspected that House would make him pay no matter how he reacted. If he backed off, House would mock him for being homophobic. If he played along, House would hound him until Wilson threw him off the scent by flirting with one of the new nurses or, better yet, Cuddy. "I'd be happy to show you around Princeton, if you have the time." He smiled, careful to include both visitors in the invitation. "I'll leave you to your business now, but please don't hesitate to call if I can be of any assistance."

"Actually, we were hoping to speak with you as well, Dr. Wilson." Jones was scrupulously polite, but even his accent couldn't disguise an underlying note of suspicion. He reminded Wilson a bit of House, but with manners.

The last thing Wilson wanted was to have anything to do with some covert organization, but the more he knew what House was getting involved in, the better chance he had of mitigating the damages. "Of course," he said, trying to sound unconcerned. "Anything I can do to help."

"That's the kind of attitude we're looking for," Jack replied, beaming. "I think we'll get on like wildfire."

"If you mean leaving a swath of destruction in your wake, then you're probably right," House said. "You still haven't told me why you're here or what you want. And just to be clear, Wilson is here as a witness to our conversation and nothing else. Understood?"

"Understood. Though you understand that if Dr. Wilson learns too much, we'll have to kill him later." Jack stared at House, who stared back, unblinking. It was like watching a rotweiller and a pit bull face off over a particularly meaty bone. Wilson could almost hear House growling. Finally, Jack laughed. "Just kidding. That's not the kind of thing we do."

Wilson wasn't reassured. He wondered what kind of things they did do, and then decided he didn't want to know.

"If you two are finished playing chicken with Dr. Wilson's life," Jones said, "might I remind you that we have a flight to catch and that traffic on the Turnpike will be insane."

"I'd definitely recommend giving yourself an extra half hour this time of day," Wilson said, even more unnerved. The sooner they left, the sooner whatever danger they represented would be gone. "And if you're flying internationally, you should check in at least three hours early."

"Don't be an idiot, Wilson," House snapped. "These aren't the kind of people who have to worry about long lines at customs."

"I don't know what kind of people they are," Wilson pointed out, somewhat untruthfully. "So far, all I know is their names."

"We belong to an organization called Torchwood," Jack said. "We operate outside of national security, beyond the United Nations. The less you know, the better."

Under most circumstances Wilson would be more than happy to agree. But if they were indeed trying to recruit House, he couldn't afford to take refuge in ignorance. "What do you want with House?"

"We're here for a consult. From time to time we run across...unusual medical situations. One of our associates, Dr. Martha Jones, tells me that 'unusual' is Dr. House's stock in trade."

If they wanted to attract House, they were certainly going about it the right way. House was no more able to resist a mystery than a free lunch. Wilson shifted slightly, positioning himself between House and Jack. "But if Dr. Jones is an associate, surely she can consult on these situations."

The smile disappeared from Jack's eyes, if not his mouth, and Wilson knew he had read the intention behind Wilson's words and body language. "Dr. Jones isn't always available. She has commitments that could potentially put her in a conflict of interest."

Wilson wasn't about to back down. "What have you done in the past, then?"

Jack glanced at Ianto. "We had a medic on the team."

Wilson noted the past tense. "Had."

"He was killed in April."

"I'm sorry," Wilson said. He was. Empathy had always been an important part of his job, but now he understood the loss of loved ones on a deeper level. He had worked his way through the five steps, come to terms with Amber's death, but it was always with him.

"But you're carrying on. Keeping the team going," House interjected. "That's good. Healthy. You have to face life, not run away."

Wilson tried to ignore him. Enough time had passed since their reconciliation that House felt comfortable enough to needle him about leaving. He was glad of that, but part of the pact he'd made with himself on his return was not to encourage the needling. Unfortunately, House rarely needed any encouragement.

"Now Wilson here is so terrified of losing anyone," he continued, "that he'll deny the very existence of a relationship just so it can't be taken from him."

Ignoring House was never really an option. "Well, maybe if you stopped almost dying, I wouldn't have such a problem," he retorted. He saw Ianto flinch and glance at Jack, who looked away. He wondered what that was about. "Were you planning on consulting here?" he asked, steering the conversation back to business. "Because it's hard enough getting House to the office five days a week, much less all the way to Wales."

"And I only fly first class," House added. "Though you can stick Wilson back in the cattle car."

"I realize you're still having separation issues," Wilson said mildly, "but I'm not going anywhere, with or without you."

"Oh, I think you are. Because unless I'm mistaken -- and you know how rarely that happens -- the good captain is much more interested in you than he is me."

Wilson glanced at Jack, and again a sense of familiarity swept over him. "Have we met before?" Normally, he was good with faces, even if he occasionally mixed up a name. But neither the name nor the face triggered a memory. Something about the greatcoat niggled at the back of his mind, though. He supposed he'd just watched too many old war movies.

But House was staring smugly at Jack. "London," he said. "The summer before Julie dumped your sorry ass."

Wilson remembered the trip, but he still couldn't place Jack. But it made sense. They must have crossed paths at some point during the conference.

"When did you remember?" Jack asked House.

"As soon as you shook Wilson's hand," House replied. "I never forget a threat. What did you do to him that night?"

"House..." Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stave off the beginnings of a stress headache. He swayed, suddenly dizzy. When Jack reached out to steady him, he saw a flash of suspenders beneath the greatcoat. The touch of Jack's hand on his arm closed the final connection. "Oh," he said, surprised. "I think I'm going to pass out." And he did.