An extremely quick ficlet that came to mind.
The last time Wilson saw his brother, he'd strangely talked to him about House. Looking back on it, the oncologist wasn't exactly sure why he'd done that. Maybe it was because as House's relationship with Stacy was taking its final nosedive, he had been on Wilson's mind a lot. And there had been something in the way Mark had greeted him by the flaming barrel, dirt-caked and reeking as he was, that reminded Wilson so much of his oldest brother from decades back. Back when Mark was the glad recipient of all his youngest brother's worries and offered keen, unfailing counsel. May it had been bullies, strict teachers or a cute girl in class, Mark always had the right answer
That, Wilson supposed, was the irony. Mark had a gift for fixing people with only a few words while several million words hadn't been successful in fixing him. Wilson still had yet to meet anyone who had a mind able to so easily pare down a person to their very core as Mark was able to in his prime. He supposed House came close, but even the diagnostician would lose against his brother. House too readily dismissed everything while Mark dismissed absolutely nothing. That was probably the reason why House still functioned while his brother did not.
He'd walked over to Mark to try and convince him for the hundredth time to check himself back into a clinic. But the words had died in his throat when his brother looked at him. The heavy lidded dark eyes were still bloodshot and glinting with that unpredictable instability. But they were focused and they looked at him in a way that let the youngest Wilson brother know instantly that amidst the rush hour of his brain, Mark was able to tell something other than having a crazy older brother was troubling Wilson.
Mark listened in silence to Wilson's concerns. About House's stubbornness against physical therapy. His growing adoration for stronger painkillers. About how the only other stable person in the diagnostician's life was probably packing her bags now as they spoke. Wilson only realized he had finished talking when Mark reached over to take the now cold coffee cup from his hands, having apparently waited for his youngest brother to finish, rather than touch him mid-monologue and interrupt the flow of words. Prying open the lid, he downed the tepid liquid in three gulps. Throwing the paper cup into the heated barrel, he murmured in his usual, baritone voice, "Better stick to him. Sounds like he needs you around." With that, Mark shuffled away, not giving Wilson another glance
And Wilson followed his brother's advice. Because so far, Mark had yet to steer him wrong.
THE END