A woman turned up at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital with numbness in her legs, nausea, constipation, fatigue, unusual bruises and repertory problems. After being handed to House he should've jumped straight in, started a differential diagnosis, ridden the team until they came up with some interesting ideas. But there was something lacking. There was no desire anymore and not just because he knew what was wrong.
House got as far as writing the symptoms on the board before he gave up. Chase opened his mouth to suggest something, but House got their first.
"It's bone cancer and a cold," he sighed.
Cameron, Foreman and Chase glanced at each other. House had been like this for a while. He wouldn't go near Oncology, never asked for their advice anymore, and if he diagnosed cancer, he wouldn't go near the patient during treatment.
"Sort it, treat it, don't bother me with it," House limped out of the board room, chucking the patient file at Chase as he went.
He hated it when he had cancer patients. Not only were they no fun, but…. He banished those thoughts from his mind, heading out of the hospital. He didn't care if Cuddy shouted at him for leaving early. She could go and stuff his job somewhere nasty for all he cared.
He didn't know where he was heading until he made it to his motorbike and had climbed on. As he pulled his helmet over his head though, all other thoughts cleared from his mind and he started up the engine, not noticing the three faces of his team looking over his balcony as he went.
It was only a ten minute drive from the hospital and as he parked up he glanced around. Spotting some daffodils growing wild, he went to go and pick them. He ignored the pain in his leg as he bent down, pulling the flowers from the earth.
Using his cane to steady himself he stood up again and limped down the gravel path. He knew the route off by heart. Walk half way up the path, turn left, down four rows, then walk down the fourth row to the sixth, newly dug grave. One side of this particular grave was an old war veteran and the other side was some random woman called Tina.
House sighed, swallowing the lump in his throat. He refused to cry. There was no point. It wasn't like his friend was still here and in pain. He wouldn't know if House was crying for him.
Bending down again he cleared the old flowers out of the way and placed the fresh daffodils on the grave.
Ironically it had been cancer that killed James Wilson. What wasn't ironic was that he seemed to have told everyone but House. Stupid Oncologist. Did he think House would care? Just because he was a friend? And why did he think it would hurt less not to find out until his best friend died?
"You stupid git," House muttered. "You had to go and die. You always were an inconvenience."
If House had spoken that way to a patient he would've had Wilson stood there, reminding him not to be rude. But Wilson was gone. So House truly had no one. The one person he'd finally managed to make friends with, and Wilson hadn't been just a friend, he'd been his best friend, and House had lost him.
Now there was nothing. There was no one to pull House back if he crossed the line, no one to spend those lonely Christmases with, no one to joke with, no one to open up to (not that House did very often). This was why House didn't get close to people, because when they left, they would leave a great gap in your soul afterwards.
The last time he'd felt this bad, was after the infarction, when he pushed Stacy out of his life for the first time. Even that wasn't like this because Wilson had been there to pick up the pieces. Considering he treated Wilson like crap he did love the man in his own twisted way.
Wilson had always been there, to make him laugh, cheer him up, bring him down from his smugness, keep him from crossing the line, and though he had never thought about it until the Oncologist was gone, he really did need Jimmy.
The tears started then. Oh fantastic, House thought bitterly. Now people would know. Unless he went straight home. But he wasn't sure he could be bothered to put up with Cuddy's ranting the next day.
"Why did you have to go and die you bloody idiot?!" House shouted at the grave. Of course, there was no reply. Only the words that had been etched into it when Wilson first passed away.
James Evan Wilson
Loved friend, brother and son.
"You don't mention your wives on there," House continued. "Though I suppose writing something for each of them would've taken up a lot of space."
Still nothing. The problem was House could imagine his face, his fluffy brown hair, his smile, the way he talked, the way he walked, but he just couldn't imagine what Wilson would say to him.
"Cameron misses you," House said, avoiding mentioning himself. Though he doubted Wilson could hear him. "She's still wandering round like a wounded puppy. Chase is a bit unsettled as well. And Foreman… well… Foreman's frustrated because he should feel more, but he didn't know you that well and isn't as easily affected as the other two. Course this means he's pissed with me 'cause he thinks he's turning into me and this is somehow my fault."
House paused, tapping his cane against the ground.
"I miss you too Jimmy," He sighed. "Don't you dare mention that to anyone mind. It'd ruin my reputation!"
He smiled slightly, the tears still falling. He could imagine his friend stood beside him, smiling sadly back. He'd probably tell House not to get so upset, that he would be here eventually and then they could catch up on all the jokes and Christmases they'd missed.
"What am I supposed to do?" House asked desperately. No reply. Nothing. And there never would be. "I'm lost without you."