Jail
A House MD Fan Fiction story
Disclaimer – I have no idea what is going to happen in the season premiere because I don't believe any of the trailers. They are so misleading. Nor do I believe any of the tweets I have been receiving. They can be misleading too. This is my idea of what I think should happen to try to rehabilitate our poor guy while he is in the hoosegow (American slang for jail). Wilson will figure prominently. This will be strictly Hilson. Rated M for adult situations and language.
Sitting on the curb nursing his injured wrist, Wilson looked up at the chaotic scene around him. There were police cars from more than one jurisdiction, two fire engines, several ambulances and more people milling around than Cuddy's neighborhood had seen in years. The street had been cordoned off with police cars, and Cuddy's house (what was left of it, anyway), was surrounded with caution tape. Several men were boarding up the front of her house where it had been smashed in, in what was probably a vain attempt to keep more of it from falling down. Officers were scouring the neighborhood with police dogs, looking for any trace of House. There is something about an emergency scene that draws the neighbors outside, and this was no ordinary emergency scene.
Centered prominently amongst all the destruction was House's fifteen year old Chrysler sedan, sitting in the middle of what was once Cuddy's living room. Cuddy was sitting on the curb on the right side of her house, as far away as she could get from Wilson. She was being interviewed by a New Jersey State Police officer. Wilson was so filled with hate for how Cuddy had treated House the last six months that he couldn't stand to be close to her. Other thoughts were going through Wilson's mind as well; chief among them, concern for House's mental well-being. Wilson was also in a state of shock, hardly able to comprehend what House had just done. House had been like a powder keg waiting to explode. Some type of explosion was expected, given the volatile nature of their relationship while it lasted and especially given the fact that the lie that broke the camel's back was the lie Cuddy told House when she said she wasn't seeing anyone. Wilson expected some type of shouting match; not this.
Sitting on the curb on the left side of Cuddy's house, far enough away that he couldn't hear what she was telling the cop, Wilson could still see her well enough to study her face. Wilson was trying to read her facial expressions and body language. Who knew what she was telling that cop. The only thing that seemed crystal clear to Wilson was that Cuddy had every intention of punishing House as harshly as possible.
House had done plenty that deserved punishment by the judicial system. Forging prescriptions certainly ranked up there. Add reckless driving, assault with a motor vehicle, assault with intent to cause great bodily harm, and who knows how many other charges to that and House could well spend years behind bars.
House was no stranger to jails. Years ago, he'd spent several nights behind bars courtesy of Detective Michael Tritter. Most recently he'd spent a few hours in the local jail in Schenectady NY, after he threatened Harold Lam with the spud gun. Considering that House had been forging prescriptions for years, it was amazing that he'd actually spent so little time behind bars.
Wilson suspected that anger and shock were fueling everything Cuddy said right now. Her answers to whatever the cop asked her were bound to be influenced by, and probably even exaggerated by anger, shock, and guilt. Anger over what House had done, shock over the extent of the damage, and guilt over how she had treated House the last six months that eventually led up to this disaster. She wasn't at fault for his behavior, but she did share some of the blame for the problems that pre-dated all of this.
When the cop asked Wilson if he knew where House was, he didn't lie when he said House would be in the darkest, most depressing hole-in-the-wall bar to be found in New Jersey. Wilson truly had no idea where his best friend was, and that scared the living daylights out of him.
Even while knowing that House didn't want to be found, Wilson still couldn't help but silently go through the list of their favorite hangouts, making mental notes to call all of them as soon as the cops stopped questioning him. It would probably be futile, since House obviously didn't want to be found, but Wilson wanted to do something before the police got a hold of House.
Or maybe that would be a mistake. Maybe I should just stay out of it, thought Wilson. Every time he gets into trouble, and I mean EVERY time, he calls on me to bail him out. Maybe it's time to man up and dig yourself out of trouble, House, Wilson thought. Be a man. Own up to what you did and be a man about it.
Cuddy'll nail his ass to the wall. Wonder how lenient the justice system will be on a drug addicted doctor with multiple felony charges? Not that I can do anything to lighten the punishment, but he means everything to me and he really does need me.
The officer concluded his questioning of Wilson by asking if Wilson wanted to press charges. "He didn't hit me, and he wasn't trying to hit me, so no. I'm not pressing charges against him."
The officer looked askance at Wilson and then added one more statement; something that Wilson already knew and he wished the officer didn't have to say it out loud. Wilson would need to be available when House was apprehended and the litigation began. He was a prime witness.
On the other side of her house, out of Wilson's earshot but not out of his field of vision, Cuddy remained seated on the curb, scowling and staring daggers at the detective who'd been questioning her. "Just give me the forms. If Greg House sets foot in my hospital, comes anywhere near me, I want him thrown in jail."
Many hours later, after most of the commotion had died down and all the emergency vehicles were gone, Wilson quietly returned to the scene of the crime. Please, House, please, let me find you. Please come home. Let's talk about this and deal with it together. Please come home! Wilson pleaded silently.
An enormous blue tarp had been draped over the gaping hole in Cuddy's house. A policeman remained on guard outside of the structure. The caution tape around her house was still in place but the roadblocks were gone and the street had reopened to traffic. Wilson sat quietly in his car a block or so away, taking in the massive destruction. He'd already gone home, but hadn't been able to sleep. The destruction to Cuddy's home caused by one man was almost unfathomable, and Wilson came back simply because he just couldn't believe it happened at all. He needed to come back to confirm that this wasn't all just some awful nightmare. Oh, how he wanted to close his eyes. He would awaken in his comfortable bed with House next to him and they'd laugh, crack some good dick jokes, plot some funny but harmless pranks to play on Cuddy and pretend like the last year just never happened.
For a few moments, Wilson wondered where Cuddy was; was she with Rachel at her mother's home? Should he check on her? Then he slapped himself. Get a hold of yourself, James. Who gives a flying fuck where she is? She has plenty of people to take care of her. House only has me. Go find House!
"House," Wilson called to the recumbent form of Gregory House, passed out and lying prone across several chairs in the ticketing area at the Newark airport. "House, come on, wake up." Wilson shook him gently by the shoulders. Wilson had already driven by all of their usual hangouts. None of the bartenders had seen House recently. On a whim, Wilson thought he might have tried to catch a flight out of Princeton. To where, Wilson had no idea, but one thing Wilson learned over the years with House was that it was very helpful to know House's motorcycle tag (license plate) number. Having had to look for House many times before, Wilson had House's motorcycle tag number burnt into memory. He was sure that Cuddy would have given that information to the police already since she probably had a record of his car and motorcycle tag numbers from his employee records at the hospital. But the airport would probably be the last place the cops would search. They were probably still focused on searching the neighborhood.
Wilson figured he might be able to stay a step or two ahead of the cops if he searched the airport parking lot himself.
Sure enough, an hour after he started searching the airport parking lots, there was House's scratched Honda in the orange Repsol paint, parked haphazardly in one of the handicapped spots. His cane was still in the cane clip on the side of the bike, so House couldn't have gotten very far. It was likely he would have boarded the shuttle bus right there at his parking spot and it was even more likely that he would be somewhere close to the shuttle bus drop-off spot at the terminal. He wouldn't be able to get very far without his cane and it wasn't likely he was actually going to board a plane, since it was mighty difficult to strap a suitcase to a motorcycle with no luggage rack and even more difficult to carry a fully loaded backpack when he'd left his cane on his motorcycle.
Suspecting he'd find House within the next few minutes, Wilson parked his car and got on the shuttle bus. There were several terminals and the shuttle stopped at every one of them, so Wilson would just get off at the first terminal. If House wasn't close by, he'd hop back on the shuttle and check out every other terminal until he found his man.
It didn't take long.
The shuttle driver had seen Wilson checking out House's bike. "Nice bike, huh? Who'd a guessed a disabled guy could handle a powerhouse like that. Got to give him credit. He must have some bucks. Them things ain't cheap," the driver said good-naturedly as Wilson boarded the bus.
"You saw him? How long ago?" Wilson cried.
"Early this mornin'. You meetin' him here?" the driver replied.
"Yeah."
"Tell 'im I'll buy his bike if it's for sale," the driver said as they arrived at the shuttle stop at Terminal A. "Have a good trip!"
About fifty feet inside the terminal there was a group seating area for passengers waiting in the ticket line. Several empty wheel chairs were parked by the door. Fortunately the airport wasn't busy because House was stretched out prone on the row of chairs in the ticketing area. No doubt he wouldn't have been able to move much farther than where he was. A large cup of coffee had been knocked over and spilled all over the carpet. An empty Styrofoam container sat on the floor also, full of used napkins and a dirty plastic fork and spoon. An orange pill bottle was lying on the floor next to the Styrofoam container. Its cap was off and pills were scattered around the vial, as if the bottle had fallen out of a pocket and the cap popped off when it hit the floor. Wilson thought quickly and went over and grabbed one of the wheel chairs. House was lying face down across the row of chairs, and using his motorcycle jacket as a pillow. Wilson visually scanned what was visible of the jacket and saw the outline of another pill bottle in House's left jacket pocket. Wilson was afraid to try to wake him up, for fear that he'd have finally died. But he had to try.
Grabbing House's shoulders, he shook hard. "House, wake up! We gotta get out of here."
Without moving an inch, House grumbled, "Say my name one more time. Say it loud, say it proud; why not? They're already hot on my tail anyway."
"Shut up and get in the wheel chair," Wilson hissed.
"Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Are they waiting for me outside the doors? They waiting to lynch me out there?"
"Shut up and get in the chair. We need to talk but not here." Wilson's voice had an unusually commanding tone to it, and House promptly complied. Wilson paraded House down to the baggage carousel and out through the Arrivals door just like anyone else pushing a disabled passenger in a wheel chair, and nobody was any the wiser. They made their way to the parking lot and to Wilson's car completely undetected. It was amazing that airport security hadn't gotten a hold of House before Wilson did.
After they were safely buckled into Wilson's car and out of the parking lot, House spoke up. "So now you're aiding and abetting a fugitive. Did ya grow an extra pair of balls?"
Wilson abruptly wheeled the Volvo onto the shoulder of the highway and shut the engine off. "For once in your life, shut up and listen to me! Man up! I'm not the one who needs to grow more balls. We are going to turn you in and you are going to man up to what you did!"
House smirked at Wilson. "Wanna know what I dreamed after I passed out at the airport? I dreamed I was on a Mexican beach getting hammered."
"I don't know, are you trying to piss me off? You trying to duck the law, evade the issue? Not working."
"No. Just not sure what I'm gonna do next," House replied truthfully.
Staring unrelentingly into House's blue eyes, Wilson said firmly. "I am. You and I both are going to the Princeton PD and turning you in. It'll be better if we turn you in before the cops catch you."
Looking askance at Wilson, House said, "Better for whom?"
"Shut up and listen. You're turning yourself in and I'll be with you. I'm not taking you to your place and I'm not taking you to my place. I'm not dropping you off here and I'm not dropping you off anywhere else."
House immediately tried and failed to unlock his door and get out.
"Good luck. Don't forget, this is a Volvo. I have childproof locks. Your lock has been disabled. You can't get out until I say so. And that's not until we get where we're going," Wilson said.
With that, Wilson peeled off back onto the highway, headed back to Princeton.
"Am I allowed to ask about my bike?" House spat out angrily, like a petulant child.
"I'll take care of it. I'll pay the parking and have it towed back to my place," Wilson replied, looking straight ahead.
Both men remained silent the entire trip from Newark to Princeton and to the Princeton police department. When Wilson's Volvo pulled into the handicapped spot in front of the precinct headquarters, Wilson turned to House as he put the vehicle in park and shut off the ignition.
"Take a few Vicodin and give me the rest. Take all the stuff out of your pockets and give it to me. Do it before we go in," Wilson said firmly.
House looked at Wilson like a rebellious teenager. A few minutes later, though, when Wilson didn't back off, House complied. He took a few Vicodin, emptied his pockets and Wilson took everything else. Wilson took the remaining Vicodin, House's wallet, his motorcycle and car keys (not that the car keys would be of much use any more), House's iPod, the watch Kutner had given House, and a few other odds and ends.
"It's better if they find your pockets empty. You ready?" Wilson asked.
"No. Let's go," House said resignedly, then looked again at Wilson. "I can't go anywhere. You locked me in."
Smiling grimly, Wilson unlocked his own door but not House's. Wilson got out, walked around, unlocked House's door, and offered assistance to his friend.
House shook him off and demanded, "Cane."
"You know they're not going to let you have that in there. Come on." Wilson leaned down so House could put his right arm over Wilson's shoulder. "You can make it in the door with me."
Slowly and resolutely, the two men made their way up the ramp and in through the big doors of the Princeton police department. Wilson stared straight ahead and House's eyes never left the ground.