Unfortunately, this website doesn't allow for collaborations (AO3 does, though. *hint hint*). If it did, this story would show under both my and Brighid45's account. Double posting might confuse people, so we decided against it. But she deserves as much of the credit for cooking this up as I do - and half the blame, too.


House closed his eyes, and rested his head against the cold brickwork of the hospital walls. Thankfully, the roof terrace was quiet at this time of day. Or night, as it may be. He didn't care what time it was. His patient was out of surgery and the team was taking care of things. He had nothing to do but not be downstairs to witness 'the departure'. Instead he sat up here smoking a joint he had pilfered from Wilson.

The door to the stairwell opened and, of course, who else could it be but Wilson. He was like a bloodhound on the trail of something. House idly wondered if there was a country where Wilson would not be able to find him. If so, right now he would seriously consider moving there.

"House? There you are. What are you doing here? I just saw Stacy. She is packing. Did you know this?"

House leaned back against the wall, blowing smoke up into the night sky. Of course I know it, he thought, and felt both fury and grief rise up inside him, like fire fed with gasoline. "M-hm, I know. What are you doing here, Wilson? Go away. You're harshing my mellow."

"What am I doing here?" Wilson sounded indignant, his voice tight with disbelief. "The woman my best friend is apparently sleeping with is leaving. I'm also missing a joint. I put two and two together. And came up with four, it was that easy." He paused. When he spoke again his tone was calmer, less strident. "House, you can't just steal a joint from my office. How did you get this out? I already took one from your pocket before you left. How many did you take?"

It had taken Wilson this long to figure it out? House shook his head and let his contempt show. "Do you know how ridiculous you sound? You can't steal drugs from my office – says the doctor who is rolling joints in his free time. You're not exactly in a position to point the finger here."

Wilson just stood there, looking at him with silent reproach. Okay, maybe he did have a point. They were talking about an illegal substance after all. House sighed and ran his hand over his face. He was surprised to find his fingers trembled a little.

"Misdirection, dear Watson, misdirection. It's the oldest trick in the book. You're too easy. I figured I had distracted you enough so you wouldn't remember exactly how many joints were on your desk. I pocketed two, one so obvious that you had to spot it. I knew you'd be delighted with yourself for having found it. Simple misdirection." House shrugged.

"I'm glad you're so pleased with yourself, Sherlock, but you might also deduce they're for someone who really needs them. My patient is in pain." Wilson was more than annoyed.

House leaned forward and glared at him. Sometimes it is easier to tell the truth when people expect you to lie. Slowly, emphasizing every word, he said, "I need them. I'm in pain. I'm your patient."

Wilson's eyebrows rose. "You're kidding, right? You're not my patient, House. Are you seriously comparing your pain levels with someone who has end-stage liver cancer?"

House rested his back against the wall and made a point of rubbing his thigh. "Last time I checked you were still prescribing for me." He couldn't help it; he had to poke Wilson until he exploded.

"Okay, yes, I am. But you're not maxed out on all pain meds like my patient."

"And yet you keep arguing I'm taking too much as it is. You won't even consider that I could be under- rather than over-medicating…" There it was. The needle that would burst the Wilson balloon.

Three… Two… One…

"House! This-this isn't the issue! I will not discuss this with you now. You took a joint from my office. I… I obviously can't take it back now, seeing as you've all but destroyed the evidence."

House just grinned, mainly because it was expected of him. Wilson was too predictable. "You're getting boring. If you've come here to berate me for my drug use, then you can leave now. You've said your piece."

But it was plain this scolding wasn't the real reason why Wilson had come up to the roof. There was something else on his mind. Clearly House's attempt at distraction hadn't worked. He was about to return to why he had originally come up here.

"What about Stacy? What did you tell her?" The urgency and, even worse, subtle condemnation in Wilson's tone made House clench his teeth.

"That's interesting. You assume right away it's something I've said or done. Now, why would that be? You don't think she decided that her marriage is worth more than a replay of something . . ." He paused, went on. ". . . something she realized years ago wasn't worth hanging around for?"

Wilson walked over to where House sat. He stopped a few feet away. "Why is she leaving, House?"

"Because I told her it's over. Because I sent her away. Now, if I tell you that it's over, will you go away, too?" House snapped. He finished the roach and flung it over the balustrade. As he stared Wilson right in the eye, he pulled out his Vicodin bottle and took two pills. For once, Wilson didn't rise to the bait. Instead he just stood there and waited House out. It was a deliberate provocation. House felt the fire inside him burn a little hotter as his rage grew.

"Oh for the love of all that's holy to you!" He almost shouted. "If I tell you, will go away already? I told her she's better off without me."

Wilson opened his mouth and then paused. "Huh. That's probably true." He looked surprised. Then comprehension swept over his face. "You're an idiot. You don't think she'd be better off without you."

Sometimes it wasn't quite as easy to fool Wilson as one would think. House glared at him. "Right. I sent her off on a whim."

"House, you have no idea why you sent her off."

Now Wilson had become seriously annoying. "Don't do this." The warning would do no good, but he had to say it. He wasn't sure how much longer he could hold back.

But his so-called friend couldn't let it go. "This was no great sacrifice! You sent her away because you've got to be miserable."

House felt like he needed another joint. Pity he had only taken the one from Wilson's office. "Kick a guy while he's down, Wilson! That kind of psycho-crap help get your patients through the long nights? Or is it just for you? Tough love make you feel good? Helping people feel their pain?"

Wilson was about to leave; maybe he had realized he had gone too far. But no, there was more. House saw the other man turn, and drew in a breath.

"You don't like yourself. But you do admire yourself. It's all you've got, so you cling to it. You're so afraid if you change, you'll lose what makes you special. Being miserable doesn't make you better than anybody else, House. It just makes you miserable."

With a stage-worthy exit, Wilson left the roof terrace, and House sat alone on the balustrade. He stayed there for a while, not sure whether he really wanted to get up. There was also the matter of how he would get home. He had hoped to hitch a ride with Wilson but that was out of the question now. Even if Wilson came back, no way would he subject himself to more pontificating about how he had done wrong by Stacy.

He hopped off the balustrade, delighted to find that his leg hurt a lot less than before. Huh, how about that. All the meds he had tried over the years, and it turned out that good old pot was as effective as any of the expensive stuff. He would have to find out who Wilson's source was.

It took a while to get to the ground floor. He waited with ill-concealed impatience for an empty elevator, finally got into one and managed to push the correct button. The descent went on forever, but eventually he reached his destination. Having made it to the lobby, he realized he was probably too far gone to drive. A taxi it was then.