Title: ((Gah. I have no title. I suck at titles. Hopefully I'll find one soon. In he meantime, it's…uh, Untitled)) Part 1?
Author: Michelle (CelticFaerie2)
Rating: Mature. This chapter is gen. But still. Overall rating will be mature.
Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, self destruction, adult situations, possibly language
Fandom: House

Spoilers: None really
Characters: Wilson, House, a few others along the way
Disclaimer: Genius to David Shore for creating such an addictive show, and of course Hugh Laurie and Robert Sean Leonard for playing House and Wilson so beautifully
Summary: Life goes on.
Notes: 1000 words.
Feedback: PLEASE!

The house was dark, silent, empty when he pulled into the drive. No lights, no dog barking, no flickering of the television in a darkened room. He surveyed the yard, but everything seemed in place. Key in the lock, opening the door. The alarm was activated, and yet there was no dog to greet him.

Something was wrong. Very wrong. He could feel it, deep in his bones. In his soul. In his heart. In the empty void where his love for Julie lived.

He shut off the alarm, only vaguely aware his fingers were trembling. He took a deep breath, called for the dog. Nothing. But he didn't expect it. The dog was gone, that was obvious. Julie was gone, that was painfully obvious.

i Maybe she took him to the vet, /i he sighed. He knew that wasn't the case. She'd left, and she took the damn dog, his dog, with her. With a deep breath and strong resolve, he searched for a note. Nothing on the fridge, nothing on the table, by the phone, taped to his computer.

There. On his pillow. An envelope. His name, her beautiful, meticulous handwriting. The complete opposite of his careless doctor's chicken scratch writing.

His palms were sweating, his hands shaking as he lifted the flap. Tucked, not sealed. How considerate. She knew he was prone to paper cuts.

He sat on the bed, noting without humor how the mattress sagged under his weight. She'd mentioned maybe getting a new mattress. They hadn't gotten around to it. More specifically, i he /i hadn't gotten around to it.

Before he unfolded the delicate paper, his eyes scanned the room. Everything seemed to be in place. Except the picture of her mother was missing from the table on her side of the bed. Didn't matter. He knew what the note said.

He an a finger along the folds, as if that would make a difference. As if that simple act would lessen the blow. He took a deep breath, wet his lips with his tongue. His eyes glanced at the carefully written words, scanned the pattern of her hand, beautiful, perfect, flawless.

My Dearest James,

I'm sorry it's come to this, but I fear there is no other choice. I can't do this anymore. I just can't. I need time, I need space. I love you, but I'm not in love with you. I know you feel the same. The magic died a long time ago, James. I'm sorry. I didn't want it to be like this.

There's leftover Chinese in the fridge. I'll be in touch. Julie.

He sat for a long time, still as a statue, cold as marble. A thousand thoughts rolled through his mind, a million things he could have done differently over the years, during the past week, two weeks. He'd seen all the signs, the way she looked away when he stepped into the room, the way her back stiffened when he kissed her, the way she smelled of some new, delicate flowered perfume.

The way he'd stayed late at the hospital when he didn't have to, pouring over paperwork late into the night when it could keep till morning. The way he met Greg for dinner in the cafeteria instead of going home. The way his heart failed to flutter, even a little bit, at the sight of her. The way his eyes watched the new afternoon-shift nurse walk past his office.

The reality of it was devastating. Mind boggling, soul crushing, spirit drenching. He'd known it was happening, had felt the gaping hole split wide between their feet each day, every night. He'd nearly welcomed it, until now. Until he held the proof of her unhappiness in his trembling hands. Until he looked around, and realized he was alone. Not even the dog had stayed. He wondered if Julie gave the mutt the choice, or just ushered him into the car and sped away.

The paper fell to the floor. His foot sought to hide it, obliterate it, crush it into nonexistence. It was still here, unchanged except a new crease in the corner and the grey imprint of his shoe imbedded in the milky whiteness of its skin.

There was only one thing to do.

It took three tries to get the number right, and as soon as he heard Greg on the other end of the line, he wondered why he didn't use speed dial. One touch dialing, it would have been so much easier.

"It's your dime," Greg House barked into the phone.

James Wilson took a deep breath. He had to be cool, casual, composed. Greg would know in a millisecond something was wrong. "Busy?"

"You know Stacked is on tonight," House answered.

Wilson nodded, his head in his hands, shoulder holding the phone to his ear. Should have used the speakerphone. Didn't have the inclination to switch over now. "First round's on me."

He knew House knew. He could hear the wheels of realization spinning in his head. He also knew House wouldn't comment. Wouldn't make him say anything over the phone. "I'll swing by and pick you up. Be ready in half an hour. Maybe I'll even let you drive."

Wilson opened his mouth to say something, something like 'thanks' or 'no thanks, I'll

drive myself,' but no words came out, and the line went dead. Wilson's tongue darted out to offer precious moisture to his lips once more as he flipped his cell phone shut.

Half an hour. That didn't give him much time to break down and pull himself back together. He should have waited to call House. He needed to break down. Before he got stone cold drunk.

He paced, reached the farthest wall of his room for the fourth time, and unleashed his fury on the unsuspecting wall. He didn't stop until his knuckles were bleeding, and in need of cleaning.

That's precisely when a pair of headlights pulling into the drive illuminated the room. Greg had impeccable timing.