King: Hi everyone! I'm King (duh!) and you have the pleasure of reading my first fanfiction piece ever! My little sister (who has her own account here (anonymous) (that is on long-term hold)) Dee was the one who turned me onto this so . . . blame her! In any case, I took a few liberties with this one, counting on my belief that House is a child trapped in a man's body with a genius' mind and an old lady's temperament. That being said, there are some mildly dark thoughts and actions in here, nothing too bad, but not for the particularly squeamish. As always, I own nothing, not even the plot because as with everything it's already been done. Oh and, show a girl some love and R&R BABY!

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Somewhere in the fantasy world created by a mixture of strong medication and one too many tequilas, the notable Dr. House realized, with a tinge of disgust, how much he hated his best friend.

No, maybe not hated, hatred implied he actually cared . . . loathed? Nah, that implied he spent hours nursing a drink and downing vicodin just wishing that the goody two-shoes Wilson would finally get what was coming to him . . . . . . . Huh, oddly enough, that sounded farmiliar.

House took a blurry glance around him, he was, in fact, nursing a drink and downing his ever precious pills in a bar as ancient as the ground it stood on, half falling out of a broken down barstool, hoping with a hope only known to men like House that the ever-wonderful Dr. Wilson would get hit by a bus . . . or some other type of large motor transportation vehicle . . . Heck, House would settle for a motor scooter. . . In fact, he'd prefer a motor scooter.

Yeah, he could see it now: Cuddy forced to tell the staff and Wilson's patients, "No, he's not retiring, he got ran over by a tire." She would undoubtedly get so many calls from his adoring fans, the ever proper boss-lady would slip and curse the dead man's name. "Yes, yes, that's right, from one of those Barbie's-first-jeep-golfcart things. No, no, we didn't realize they were dangerous either. Yes, it is a shame. Who ran over him? Well, the police believe that someone didn't so much as run into him as the golfcart rolled over him. Yes, it was parked on a hill. Calm down Mrs. Lupenski, I'm sure your grandchildren are perfectly safe."

He managed to choke out a bitter laugh at his own twisted fantasy. As increasing amounts of alcoholic beverages were dumped into his bloodstream, Wilson's death seemed more and more like a beneficial prospect. Then again, what else could you expect from Father Theresa?

At this thought, another surge of resentment bubbled to the surface. Every one LOVED Wilson, so content were they with his false words of humility and painted on smiles they didn't so much as wonder about his two failed marriages, and if they should, by chance, happen to come across such information, they wouldn't think twice about it because of course someone like Wilson, who excelled in the role of friendly advice giver, couldn't possibly just be telling them all exactly what they wanted to hear.

It could be considered ironic, he supposed, that everyone was so determined to "fix" him because he realized that people were morons while Wilson was left alone because he pretended everyone was equal. A sardonic lifting of the lips forced his face into a smile, he was just as screwed up.

Pausing a moment to acknowledge two exceptionally pretty call girls,(or very manly drag-queens, he couldn't be sure which) who were looking his way, he picked up his drink for another long gulp. How odd, it didn't taste much like tequila, or whiskey, or alcohol at all, but he supposed that could be blamed on his lack of sensory perception rather than the barkeep.

In a place like this, the bartender didn't take away your keys or comment when he thought you'd had enough. Nah, in a place like this, you could die and no one would know until you didn't show up for work a week later and even then, no one would care because only idiots drank alone at broken-down bars like this one. It was a shame he wouldn't remember where this place was in the morning.

As if on cue, he very nearly fell off his bar stool. He adjusted himself, tucking his legs under him for leverage and attempted to overcome the nausea and disorientation that came with such a move. The word seemed to spin around uncontrollably, the colors blurring and mixing until everything seemed to be one big blob of mismatched patchwork.

His vision faded, making everything even more unclear, his eyes seeming to close of their own accord. A sudden cramp in his stomach forced him to gag twice before retching violently. In some far corner of his mind he realized he'd just vomited blood before falling into unconsciousness.

"beep . . . beep . . . beep . . . "

The slow beat of a heart monitor was the first thing he was aware of, that and the pressure of a gas mask on his face.

'Damn . . .' he realized, 'must've overdosed.'

While mildly surprised that someone in that hell hole of an establishment bothered to call an ambulance, he wasn't at all grateful for it. This was just the sort of thing Wilson needed to persuade Cuddy to get him off the vicodin and into some sort of touchy-feely-I-love-ponies "treatment center."

Being treated in the back of that ambulance, being rushed to the emergency room, brooding about the wolf in sheep's clothing that was Wilson, he could only hope with a desperate longing that only men like House possessed, that somewhere, someway, Wilson was being pancaked by a runaway motor scooter. His vision faded again to black and the slow beat of the heart monitor fell into one last long rhythm . . .

"bbbeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeppppppppp . . . "