House leans back and listens to the music. He lets it wash over him as the choir rises up into the final verse, giving every part of themselves to the sound; the voices of the descants soar above the others like joyful birds singing of God's right hand and Chistmas angels and children crown'd like stars in heaven.
He hasn't been to church in a long time, not since he left home at seventeen. He hated it, the stifled atmosphere and the faith and people singing that God will redeem them and they will have a happy ending.
Some people don't deserve to be redeemed; others used to dream of a redemption from pain and fear, because it seemed the only escape.
The only thing he ever took from a church was the music at Christmas. So old and so strange and filled with patterns and beautiful words. He hates it, because he still has those old memories burnt into his mind despite everything.
Christmas day was fear and frustration and first an eagerness to please, then a bitter desperation. Christmas was family time and time for gifts and brandy and arguments in the kitchen.
He still hates the sound of breaking glass.
But he's tired now, the memories have faded over time. The bitterness is still there, but he sits and lets the music float past and half-hopes that it will carry his tired pain with it.
His leg never stops aching, never ceases for a moment. Not even at Christmas.
The congregation moves to sing. He hesitates, then stands with them. The flare of pain is predictable, as familiar and as painful as ever even as he joins the music. He remembers the different parts but doesn't step away from the tune; he lets the music carry him forwards.
It is Christmas Eve, and the smell of candlewax and oranges and pine needles mingles with the voices of choir and congregation, in harmony as the verses sweep by. The music is beautiful, and House holds the dying notes in his head as the last echoes fade.
His leg aches. His mind burns with tiredness and loneliness and so many memories.
The choir sings once more, their voices flying up to the high stained glass windows, and he is home, lost in the music.