Cuddy sighed as House limped out of her office. Her fights with him were getting harder and harder to bounce back from. He wasn't teasing her anymore. He was angry and hurting and he wanted the rest of them to hurt too. What he really wanted was for Wilson to be hurting but since that was impossible now, House had to settle for making everyone else miserable.
It had been three months since Wilson's death and things didn't seem to be getting any better. In fact things had arguably been getting worse.
At first House walked around like a zombie, barely responding to anyone. He went to the funeral. He didn't say a word and kept to the back. Chase and Cameron tried to talk to him after the funeral. Cuddy eventually had to get them to back off.
He stayed that way for about a month, silent and stoic. But once Wilson's office had been cleared out and his position had been filled, House came barging into Cuddy's office, furiously shouting at her.
She was thrown at first, it felt like forever since she had heard his voice.
"House…what am I supposed to do? The world still needs oncologists."
"Good to know that's all he was to you."
"That's not fair. He was my friend too and I miss him just as much as you do--."
House cut her off, "NO, you don't."
Cuddy softened. "I miss him. But I can't just leave his office empty forever."
"It's only been a month."
Cuddy sighed, "House, this is going to happen. Someone will be taking Wilson's job and you need to find a way to deal with that."
He left in a huff. Things had been like that for a while now and getting progressively worse. It was getting to the point where as soon as he spotted you, he was attacking you for something.
The Dean of Medicine didn't know what to do anymore.
House entered his apartment and carelessly shrugged off his jacket. He plopped down on the couch and immediately went for his Vicodin.
After a couple of those he turned on the TV. There was nothing particularly interesting on. He winced as he sprawled himself on the couch, trying to get comfortable.
He just wanted to fall asleep. He always wanted to sleep. He was so tired lately. He hadn't been near his piano since the day he watched his best friend get buried beneath the earth.
He hadn't actually done much of anything since then. He still went to work but it didn't capture his interest the way it once did and then to add insult to injury, there was someone else in Wilson's office now.
He hated walking by there and avoided it at all costs. He never went out on the balcony anymore.
He snapped whenever one of his fellows said anything remotely related to Wilson, Cameron provided most of those problems. He didn't know what it would take to get through to her that he did not want to talk about Wilson, especially with her.
Just when he thought she would finally drop it, she would bring it up again, her voice always so cautious and painfully sympathetic.
"What do you want?!" He finally yelled one day.
"I found my best friend dead in a bathtub full of his own blood. Do you really have to ask how that made me feel?"
Her eyes turned to saucers, "n-no, I just thought--."
"How about focusing all your thoughts on making all those dying people you love so much better so you can be bestest friends foreverest."
Annoyingly, she kept standing there for a few moments before admitting defeat and retreating back to the conference room, embarrassed because Foreman and Chase had most likely heard the exchange.
House tried to push the event out of his mind because it was preventing sleep from taking him. He downed another Vicodin.
Why couldn't he sleep? He never dreamed anymore. He never saw Wilson in his sleep; he never saw anything in his sleep. He was grateful that he didn't dream, at least his subconscious hadn't turned on him like everything else had. Like his body had, like Stacy had, like Cuddy had, like Wilson had.
Normally, he was dead to the world about five minutes after he hit the couch but tonight he couldn't make his mind stop.
He couldn't make sleep come; he briefly considered calling Cuddy but dismissed the idea quickly. He took a long look at his piano and thought about playing.
Instead he lifted his body up and went for the kitchen. He took out a few beers. He sat back down on the couch and lined the bottles of beer up, placing the bottle of Vicodin on the end.
"Wilson…" House trailed off, what could he say to an empty room that he had never been able to way to the man that he missed so much now?
He looked at the alcohol and Vicodin, he wanted to consume it all, and he wanted to go with Wilson. He wanted to make his mind stop but he couldn't.
He couldn't go through with it, which seemed ironic to him. Everyone always knew that Wilson would outlive him; House always knew that Wilson would outlive him and that thought used to comfort him. It comforted him that he would never have to go through the grief of losing his best friend and being left alone.
But all that was out the window now. He felt alone, there were people who wanted to help him but they didn't understand, just like they never understood.
With and angry grunt he knocked all the booze and pills off of the coffee table with the cane that Wilson had bought him.
"Wilson, you idiot," he screamed as the bottles shattered on the floor.
He collapsed back down on the couch and tears came. He had fought them off so many times in the last three months and now finally they had beaten him and came stinging.
He wanted to be angry that the tears had finally won but before he could muster the strength he was asleep. Hopefully, tonight, he wouldn't dream at all.
Author's Notes: Well, there's my sequel. I still don't think it's very good but once again, I really hope you all enjoyed it. R&R please. Thanx buds