A/N: This is my first House fanfiction. I really wanted to write something featuring Thirteen's father (even though that seems to be a recurring motive in some fanfictions, I don't think he was abusive but esentially a nice guy who suffered a great loss), but I wasn't sure how to do, or what to write, so that's what I came up with.

The rating is T because I'd rather be too careful than too daring with it. Euthanasia is mentioned, and this can be a touchy subject. Personally, I don't see why 9+ could be setting the line too low (age-wise), but others might disagree, so I'm just being safe (and admittedly a real coward).

Spoilers: The story is set about two years after Season 8, Episode 22, "Everybody Dies". So if you haven't finished the show yet, this story is going to contain spoilers. If you have somehow managed to be a House-Fan who hasn't watched the finale yet and stayed away from spoilers - kudos to you! I watched the last episodes, like, a month late, and knew all about what I was going to see.

Disclaimer: I see how this might come as a surprise, but I do not own House MD. Technically, I named her brother, and I also made the specifics of their story up, but they were mentioned on the show before, so... yeah. It all belongs to FOX, I guess. I also made the library up. There might be one, but who knows?

The title, "Choosing My Confessions", is a line from the song "Losing MY Religion" by R.E.M.

Stewart Alsop was a newspaper columnist who lived from 1914 to 1974.

Because I'm paranoid, my sources are listed on the bottom of this story.

It would be cool if you dropped a review after reading this!

Choosing My Confessions

A dying man needs to die, as a sleepy man needs to sleep,

and there comes a time when it is wrong, as well as useless, to resist.

Stewart Alsop

He had always loved the smell of old paper and ink. It had soothed him in the worst and been the icing on the cake in the best of times. Being a history professor, retired but not less passionate about it, that was probably a prerequisite for the job. The thought that millions of people worked to preserve history, to memorize, interpret and use it to create a better future, made the thought of losing each and every thing of his own life a bit more bearable. Becoming a part of history, in a sense, was beautiful. It hurt him... but these places, libraries, archives, or just the memory of those who would outlive him, had always been able to soothe his pain. The world went on. Eventually, it would forget. But for a while, it would remember and he had done his best to extend this period for as long as he possibly could.

As Dr. phil. John Hadley walks down the James Wilson wing of the Princeton Central Library, he breathes the air in as deeply as he can, and tries to forget about the heavy feeling that has patiently stayed with him for the last two months. Indeed, he had taken a while to find this place, and even longer to pluck up the courage to visit it.

He is looking for a man he has never met before, but it takes him only seconds to spot him. In the very back of the reading room, hardly visible behind two enourmous stacks of books, sits a man whose hair is a little more sparse than on the pictures John has found online, whose skin is a shade paler, and whose eyes are sunken in a tat deeper. He looks older, as worn out as you would expect a man who has officially been dead for 24 months to look like, but there's no doubt that he's the one John is looking for. He approaches the table quickly, not because he's eager to get there, but because he's scared that he'll leave if he thinks about it much longer.

"Gregory House?"

The man looks up from his current book and slightly narrows his eyes. "You look familiar."

"We have never met before."

House doesn't answer to this, but wordlessly turns back to the book. It's thick and looks as if it is both, very old and very expensive. John sits down on the oposite side of the table and carefully pushes the bookstacks aside, as to be able to look at the other man. He apprechiates them, but they don't matter right now. He's about to arrange destruction. Not all the books in the world will be able to repair this damage.

"I'm here because I need your help."

"I don't do that any longer." He still looks at the page in front of him, but John is fairly sure that he's not reading anything right now. "You can rat me out to the police though, they might even pay you a reward. I used to be Bin Laden's best bud, so - I guess you could say I'm kind of a big deal."

"It's not so much me, actually."

"Then you can take a money and have a good time. You wouldn't even hurt yourself."

"It's my daughter."

"If you really care about her you should find her a doctor who gives a shit, not somebody who quit."

"She doesn't need a cure." John pauses for a second and takes a deep breath. "I mean, she does, but I am not naive."

"Any one will do then. Letting them die is the easiest part of the job."

"I think you promised to kill her."

Very slowly. House's head goes up and he takes a more serious look at his visitor. "So that's where I know you from."

"Yes."

"I guess good news don't travel as fast as people give them credit for. I've been dead for... now, how long has it been? A year? Two? Three? Give and take a couple weeks."

He knows that House knows exactly how long it has been. "Two full years, almost to the day."

"I never made a promise. I merely offered a wy out."

"If you offer to do something like that, you promise. You don't break a word like that."

"Did Thirteen figure out it was a fraud?" It seems like something she would do. Obsess over something irrelevant that everybody else has already forgotten about, obviously.

"No, I did", John shook his head in denial, but a faint smile spread over his lips. "She mentioned that you call her that. I didn't think it spoke in your favor, but it sounds different than I expected."

"I speak of my coworkers with a lot of love and respect, but they never remember to speak of that."

"So... am I right?"

"About what?"

"Your promise."

"I also promised a lot of things to a lot of people, some of them being more, some less crazy... the people, I mean. Well, and the promises."

"I know you're supposed to be dead. You've already had your funeral, and I know she was incredibly mad at you afterwards. She used to visit me on occasions when she was still better, and with some things, she's just like her mother."

He frowns a bit, probably thinking of the disease that his wife and children have in common, too.

"None of them were good pretenders. They were to the rest of the world, but I always saw right through them, no matter how hard they tried. They could've fooled God into believeing everything was fine, but never me. I always knew."

He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly.

"I passed that on to her. Not that it did her any good, though. If you distance yourself by nature, but see what people are really like... You're bound to fall into despair. You're never gonna be truly close to anybody, and then the loneliness will get you. Amy was like that, too, but different. Kept to herself, but Anne knew to read her better than I did." He looks up at House, both eyebrows slightly raised, causing his eyes to look strangely wide and sad. "But who am I telling that to, right?"

"If she thinks I'm dead, how come you looked for me?"

"I've been married to Anne for almost twenty years before she died and I've never loved someone so much ever again. Not that I didn't try. I did, it just... it was meant to be just once, I think, and then never again. It's a gift and a curse. If you find your perfect match, the world can't hurt you one bit, but it you lose that one, you're as lonely as can be. I mean, I found somebody, but after Anne was dead... we were free, just for a couple of years, free of everything, just with each other and the children, and things seemed to become... so, so much better."

"But they didn't?"

"Oh,l no, they really got. But then, they became empty. I only took of care of Anne, in the end. And loved her. Took care of her and loved her, day by day, and then there way Rose, whom I loved too, and who was there for me. But I missed Anne too much. Not taking care of her after her death... I don't know, I forgot how to simply care about somebody after that. I couldn't make love last long enough. Couldn't hold on during the bad times any longer. Remy struggled with that, too. Always found somebody, but let go eventully. And Leonard, he just... he was loved, I mean, he had a family and everything, but it didn't help him one bit in the end. It didn't even make a difference."

"What about the one she was with when she left?"

"When you let her go."

"You want me to kill your daughter and reproach me for firing her?"

John only shakes his head. "By no means."

"So?"

"They split. Remy didn't explain, but she didn't want her to watch her die. It was a couple of months before things got really bad. She didn't even tell me until then. I mean, I have known it for some time now. I know the signs. Leonard kept it a secret too, until there was no way of keeping it a secret. But I saw that his hands were shaking and his muscles twitching sometimes, and then more often, and I saw it in her, too. But she never lost a word about it, so neither did I."

"Then how did you find me? Nobody else did. But nobody else was looking for me, so it'isn't that spectacular."

"Should I have talked about it more? I know I left her alone. I could've told her it's okay, I can handle that. What if she kept it to herself because she thought it'd break me? What if she suffered because I wasn't good enough?"

"Well, that would really suck."

"I don't even know if I could've handled it."

"A sorrow shared is a sorrow doubled."

"You... you must be very lonely."

"You don't say." House's voice is a little imaptient by now. Thirteen's dad intrigues him, he must admit that to himself, and he can't deny that he enjoys talking to somebody again. Ever since Wilson died, nobody has talked to him like that. Nobody has known him, nobody cared. Nobody had been there whom he, House, had even remotely cared about either. A bit of his past is coming back. The only bit, to be honest, that he hasn't left behind without regrets.

"Why are you here?", he pressed again, "How?"

"I took a shot." John shruggs. "You seem to be a man who keeps his promises. Maybe a lying bastard too -not my words, just what has come to my ears- but still of the honest kind. You might hurt people and act reckless and regret too little of the things you did, but... I know what she did for Leonard, because I couldn't do it back then. And now she's dying, and whenever she knows what she is saying, it's your name." A few tears have filled his eyes and make them look red, almost bloodshot. He is tired, that is obvious, in a way that doesn't show just because you haven't slept well.

"So you figured I promised to kill her", House states, "and because she told you I'm a lying bastard, you figured I'm still alive and hope I'm still going to keep my promise."

For a long time, he doesn't answer at all. It strucks House that, by coming here, he is, in a way, killing his daugher. He just can't be the headsman. "Your friend died and was burried here, and a large sum of money was donated to this library in his name. I knew if you were still alive, I'd find you here. Large collection of antique medical books. Nothing compared to working in a clinic, I suppose, but for you, it's probably the closest you're ever going to get to this again."

"Yeah, thanks."

"Oh, no. I didn't mean to imply that your life is meaningless. You gave up a lot for your friend."

"That stopped being noble once he died." The thought of Wilson still leaves him with a weird feeling every single time. Death is nothingness. Nothingness, at least to House, is desireable, and he knows well that missing the dead, missing Wilson, is a dumb thing to be doing. He's gone... so what? It's not like his last weeks were particularily great, anways.

But still... he doesn't believe it anymore. Wilson's death does mean something. It means the hell of a lot to him.

"I couldn't be there for them when Anne died. I should've been, but I just couldn't."

"You lost your wife."

"They lost their mother,and they were children. And sometimes I think that, maybe, I didn't love them enough. I tried to, but when Anne passed, I... I just didn't know what to do, and neither did they, so I should've done... somthing, whatever, to help them, but I couldn't. No matter how much I wanted to, I just couldn't."

"So you're beating yourself up over not having done something you still don't know years ago, which could have hurt somebody so long ago that they've probably been over it for the longer part of their lifes, anyways."

"No, what I'm doing is... is... I'm beating myself up over not even being there for them when their time has come, I guess. I failed them too often, and I can't do anything about it. They'll think of me, if there's... something else, and all they'll be able to remmber is what I did to them. You know, I hit him once. Leonard. Anne and I, we vowed that we'd never do this to our children, and she never did, but I betrayed her. He was just a few years older than Remy, but wise beyond his age. He did something at school, beat up another kid and gave him a nosebleed, two weeks after Anne died. That was the only time he did something serious. They both skipped school sometimes, and drank too early, and hung out in the city well into the morning hours, but they always were good kids, still, and I was always proud of them. And then I got a letter from Anne's life insurance because they refused payment at first, until we sued them for it, and Leonard came in with that note and I... I..."

"Beat him", House ended the sentence, his voice still as calm as before. What the man was really thinking of him now, John couldn't tell and was afraid of nevertheless.

"I got scared. Really, really scared. The walls were closing in on me. I couldn't breathe, I coudln't see... and I just had to get outside. I tried to get to the door, but I ran into him, and then I just... I shoved him aside and he bumped against the table. Fell over it, I think. But I didn't stop. I just kept walking, and sat down on the porch to breathe again. He brought me a glass of water. I apologized and he said it's okay, but I know I hurt him. I know it."

"You could have done worse. As a parent." For once, he choses compassion over cruelty. The man House looks at is broken as it is. There is no satisfaction he could draw from making him worse.

"I should have done better." John clasps his hands tightly against each other, anxiously almost."That's what they remember, isn't it? We're bound to remember the worst, I know that, it's natural science. I read that once, although it's not my strong suit-"

"Oh no, go on, they'd let you teach community college."

"I just keep thinking that... before he died, and his mind was all over the place... what if this was what he thought of? What if he looked at me when I visited and he thought dad and then he thought mom and then he remembered what I did to him after his mom died. And she will look at me and remember how, sort of, she had to kill her brother because couldn't do it, and Amy will be at the funeral, looking at her, thinking wow, dad, you really screwed us over and I won't be able to defend myself. I... I won't have the right to."

House lets almost five minutes pass before he answers. Short, matter-of-fact. He can't contemplate over his own guilt like that.

"You're here now."

"Will you do it?"

He closes the book and puts it on the stack closest to him, even though it's also the one looking less stable.

"I promised."

Sources:

Losing My Religion: azlyrics lyrics /rem/losingmyreligion .html

Stewart Alsop: . .edu/johnson/archives .hom/oralhistory .hom/Alsop-S/Alsop-S .asp