Disclaimer: [H]ouse is not mine and never will be.
This is for fans of Rebecca... or not. ;-) Hope you like.
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Morning bed check.
House rubs the sleep from his eyes, but the image lingers. He's experiencing Variations on a Theme but in dream form. It is his constant companion since he fled to his Elba.
It is always night, and there is always a damaged structure. A mythical burned out relic, or something familiar like Cuddy's caved in dining room sporting taillights, or a gaping space between buildings with an apron of rubble where a garage once stood. He aches with loss, almost crushed to dust like the bricks and stones.
He crawls to a ragged-topped pillar, no longer useful. He tests its solidity by gently leaning his shoulder against it. Deeply anchored to the foundation, the stanchion holds.
And the dream ends.
The sad hitchhiker follows him out of prison. Insists on snuggling suffocatingly close before his return to the hospital. House drowns it in his morning coffee. After all, Foreman told him Cuddy was gone.
As he walks past the front desk and down the familiar corridors, memories of his dream emerge and snicker, "Not gone. Not gone. He never left."
Eyes dull and wearing a stony facade, Wilson offers a cold greeting.
House smiles.
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