Warnings: This will be a SLASH fic so if you don't like the idea, don't read

Summary: It's 1914 and Greg House is a sarcastic and prank loving medical student who, along with the (slightly) more sensible younger student James Wilson is having 'a fine time thank you very much'. This all looks set to change, however, as war is declared and the young men are forced into a whirlwind of circumstances beyond their control...

Notes: this will later turn into a crossover with Pat Barker's 'Regeneration Trilogy' but no one needs to actually know anything about it in order for it to make sense. This story doesn't have a beta so any mistakes are mine and I really ought to be revising... Let me know what you think!

Disclaimer: don't own House, didn't start the First World War

"The Oxford Union," Greg House muttered under his breath, "cultivator of imbeciles since 1823." The only man within earshot of this was one James Wilson who was at this moment sweeping a floppy lock of hair away from his eyes in order to see his friend as he grinned back at him wryly: "look on the bright side, at least your father will be pleased." As soon as the last word had left his lips he found himself ducking as a mortar board sailed towards his head with deadly intent. When he next looked up it was to see that House had turned on his heel, stalking off in a flurry of gown and suit. With grin still fixed Wilson picked up House's board along with his own and ran after him, silently cursing his friend's long-legged stride.

"Here" he said, handing back the mortar board and letting their hands brush with a lingering touch of apology, "you'll be rusticated if Higgins sees you without it on." Greg snorted- a sure sign that Wilson's misdeeds were forgiven- "Higgins would have me sent-down if he saw my top button undone. He's been looking for an excuse to punish me for years. Seriously, you hang one man's trousers from the top of a tower and they hunt you down for the rest of your life..." Now it was Wilson's turn to snort derisively "well, he might not have been quite so unhappy if he hadn't been wearing the trousers when you happened to steal them," the younger man held up a hand in a silencing gesture as he saw that House was about to reply, "I know, I know- 'it's his own fault for sleeping on the job.'" Greg nodded, "quite so," but his triumphant expression soon turned grim as he remembered the verdict of the debate. "Besides, I think we all have bigger matters than rustication to worry about. Unless of course Higgins is a German, in which case he might as well shoot me now and save his fellow countrymen in France the effort."

Wilson feigned contemplation on the subject of Higgins's nationality for a moment before musing "I wouldn't put it past him." It had been meant as a joke but he was shocked to see that his friend looked genuinely morose. Snide, bad-tempered and malevolent were all expressions which one must come to expect from the famously prickly Gregory House, but Wilson- who knew the older student well- had never seen him so resigned. "Cheer up," he said, attempting to make his inflection as light as possible despite the genuine discomfiture he felt at his friend's demeanour, "you heard what they said- the war will be over by Christmas and we can all get back to worrying about oversleeping, under-performing and feigning deathly illness in order to avoid tutorials." They were nearing the entrance to Wilson's college but he was strangely unwilling to leave his friend right now and thus he walked straight past the porter's lodge, purposefully refraining from giving it a second glance. In his peripheral vision he could see Greg's raised eyebrow but neither of them passed comment on the fact that Wilson had, in effect, invited himself to spend the night in House's room.

"They're all fools," Greg stated as they walked along the High Street and Wilson didn't need to ask who they were, "and you're a fool if you believe them. They can't possibly know when the war is going to end and as for their attitude that we'll all get through it alive..." House shuddered slightly, whether through cold or dread Wilson could not tell. "An 'Oxford education' might grant us a certain degree of privilege but it does not make us bullet proof. They honestly believe that this thing is going to end in one big cavalry charge... Idiots!" Greg cursed loudly, picking up a stone and hurling it angrily into the river, upsetting its calmly reflective sheen as it flowed under Magdalen Bridge. Wilson gazed out into the twilight horizon, reflecting upon his friend's words and feeling, for the first time since war had been declared, afraid for them both. "You... you really think that this war is going to be different?" Greg looked into Wilson's eyes, brown pools that failed miserably in any attempt he might make to disguise his emotions, and he almost felt guilty for upsetting his naive dreams. Almost. "I know so. The artillery is far more powerful than it once was. They have machine guns, grenades and God knows what else. You're a medical student, James, it doesn't take any leap of imagination to conceive the effects of gun fire on flesh." Suddenly exhausted he took one look at Wilson's expression- that of a spaniel that had just been kicked- and sighed, relenting slightly for probably the first time in his life "come on, it's getting late."

Having reached his room House flung off his robe and threw it to the ground to further add to the disarray of books and clothes before loosening his hated tie. Wilson removed his own gown rather more carefully, almost reverently, and House looked at him fondly when he knew he wasn't looking. Poor, innocent Jimmy. He had been at Oxford for almost a year and still he had a tendency to wander around like a bewildered spectre, taking long glances at spires and libraries as if he feared that they would slip away. From a family of Jewish immigrants he had fully expected to go through his life downtrodden and marginalised just as his ancestors had before him and yet here he was, a medical student at the most prestigious university in the Western World. House, however, was from a far more traditional background and he loathed every reminder of it, rebelling at every occasion against his father's dictatorial regime. And yet now... now he would have to become everything he had spent a lifetime loathing; he would be forced to throw away the degree he had fought so hard to come so far with and become his father. God, how he hated the military!

He was so caught up in his maudlin reflections that he didn't notice that Wilson was speaking to him "...you weren't the only one." He glanced up in confusion and Wilson repeated what he had said, "to vote against the motion. You weren't the only one who disagreed that 'we should fight for King and Country.'" That had been their reason for attending the Union that night- the big debate- should the learned men of Oxford abandon the cloistered conditions to which they had become accustomed and join the war. The motion had carried; it would now be considered shameful if any man who was able did not rise to the challenge. They think this is a game, House had thought, but this isn't rugby or rowing. The penalty for losing is not to take 'a bit of a wigging' from one's friends. Why can't they see that? He had seen that, all too plainly, as rationally imagined horrors had flashed before his mind's eye. He grunted at Wilson's statement "yes, but the person in front of us objected on the principle that 'France is full of French people' which, while unfortunate, is hardly the crux of the matter." Wilson smiled at this though he had clearly lost some of his natural joie de vivre in the light of House's scientific reasoning. He had not, however, lost an ounce of his optimism and, placing a hand on House's shoulder he asserted with all the authority he possessed "we'll get through this. We'll sign up together and get through this together." House almost found himself believing him. Almost.