For Good
Pairing: G. House, J. Wilson
Rating: T
Warnings: Pre-slash, slash, adult language, and possibly adult content in later chapters.
Summary: Wilson leaves "for good." House is broken. House needs to find his friend and apologize, if he ever wants to salvage their friendship.
A/N: Hey guys. Just a quick note before you start reading. this is my first FanFiction. So I started off with a prologue. Just to give you a taste of what's going on. Also, if you're expecting something super sappy and romantic, please, don't read past this prologue unless you can deal with a story that's not all sugary and whatnot. I can't stand stories like that. This is going to start out with a T rating, but that might go up in later chapters. Or maybe I'll make a companion to this Fic with an R rating. Who knows? (;
Enjoy.
Prologue.
It was one- no, maybe two in the morning. Watching old re-runs of General Hospital no longer held any entertainment, seeing as Gregory House could recite almost every word from almost every episode thanks to his late night "habits." Habits being the nice way of putting it. Because really, they weren't "habits" at all. In fact; if it were up to himself, he would be fast asleep. Preferably Vicodin-enduced, to take the edge off the pain in his leg.
But things didn't always work out in his favor, of course. There were many incidents that could prove this. Like the whole ordeal with Stacy, Tritter, the infarction, so on and so forth. Things that shouldn't have to be brought to attention. House wasn't always fortunate. This was a known fact, even though most of his fellows pretended this wasn't the case. To them, he always got what he wanted. Like a child.
To them, he was House, Medical Doctor. Head of Diagnostics at Princeton Plainsboro. Loud, obnoxious, demanding, self-centered, loathing, egotistical psycho that actually knew what he was doing; whether he was aware of the consequences or not. Which he usually was. House was a man who wasn't afraid of taking risks. Sometimes, those risks were taken without having any benefit to himself.
Maybe House was a bastard.
But he had good intentions.
It had come to a point where the man wasn't even paying attention to the footage flashing on the television. It wasn't even comforting in the least, or amusing. He simply sat there. Beer in one hand, with the other on the arm rest of the leather couch. He has had better nights.
This was one of those nights where his sub-conscious wouldn't let him close his eyes. It left him considering, over-thinking, and eventually pinning after something he thought he needed to solve about himself, but wasn't really in need of solving. His brain needed something to configure. To solve, sort, anything to keep himself busy; and there was nothing he could do about except wait until his mind was reduced to fuzzy, black matter, and sleep consumed him.
House straightened and picked up the remote, switching the T.V. off. He removed his shirt and proceeded to lie back on the couch, guzzling the last of his beer. He reached in his pocket and felt around until he grasped a small bottle, rattling it for good measure. Wilson would not be happy with him if he knew he were taking too many pills in one day.
Sighing in defeat, he popped open the bottle and dispensed the few remaining small capsules into his palms and swallowed them dry; making a mental note to ask Wilson for a script. That is, if he remembered when morning came. He was in too much pain to care.
'He's gone. Right.' Sighing to himself, he closed his eyes and allowed himself a bit of sleep for now.
Too much pain.