The world thinks it's rid itself of Gregory House and James Wilson.
After all, one died in a burning building and another died of cancer. Though nobody ever saw either of their faces as they lay dead, it was safe enough to assume.
But remember, assumptions can be a dangerous thing.
Two ghosts sit, facing each other, in an out-of-the-way café. One is stirring his coffee, and another is rubbing his right thigh, wincing a little.
"Is your leg alright? I think we still have a little Vicodin left," The brown haired, shorter ghost finally looks up from his coffee.
The evidently older, unshaved ghost shakes his head. His voice is hoarse. "I took it last night. I can get more."
And the two sit in silence for another period of time. Neither looked uncomfortable, or awkward. They looked perfectly content simply being in the other's company, silently engaging in their own thoughts (no doubt about each other), and from time to time stealthily sneaking a peek at their companion.
Two ghosts, who aren't quite ghosts, and aren't quite dead.
"Heard your family had a funeral for you last week," House quickly filled out the last five squares on his crossword, which took a total of eighty four seconds. They really needed a new hobby.
Still trying to figure out the word for 4 across, Wilson nonchalantly remarked, "And… you're stalking my family."
"I owe you, Wilson."
Wilson recalled their dinner that he had turned into a dinner for House and his parents, the road trip to House's father's funeral, that strange book "Step by Step: Sermons for Daily Life". Well, he had done a fair bit of meddling in House's personal affairs.
"It was pure serendipity, I swear on my life. Oops, too late," House grinned. "I was really trying to see what Foreman had been up to, and whether I could ruin it for him. Accidentally found out he'd been to your funeral."
Serendipity! That was the word. Wilson quickly completed the crossword.
"You seem awfully indifferent about this," House mused. "You either don't give a crap, or we're preparing for the return of Kyle Calloway. I'll get the condoms."
"No way is Kyle coming back. I'm just indifferent because… I should be in that empty coffin they buried. I should be dead."
"It's only been seven months," House was suddenly somber. His forehead creased in both worry and pain.
"That's two months too long. And you know it."
The worst kind of torture isn't the kind that you feel at the current moment. Sure, that's pretty terrible; just ask House, he's a true expert on the topic. No, the worst kind of torture, is knowing that up ahead, at any given time in the near future, there will be pain.
That knowledge far surpasses physical pain. Just ask Wilson, he's now an expert on the topic.
Wilson was living in fear. Fearing that the next morning he would wake to a sharp pain deep in his chest, where the tumor was, and that would be the start of his downward spiral. But the worst part is that the anticipation of that day pained him every day.
"When will this thing kill me?" Wilson blurted out one day at breakfast. They had been laughing about some funny prank House pulled. Wilson had already forgotten the conversation, as House's deep, blue eyes stared at him silently.
"I… don't know, Wilson. I mean, as much as I seem like it, I'm not God," House threw a Vicodin, maybe two, into his mouth.
"Oh stop deflecting. I should have been dead three months ago, but here I am, walking, living, breathing. It's killing me, knowing that someday I'll start dying and I don't know when."
House stopped. He pressed his weight onto his cane, upright beside his seat. "Fine. Let's take a look inside, shall we?"
And he tried to give the most sinister smile he could, but Wilson wasn't in the mood for playing.
There was a little bit of déjà vu. Wilson was lying straight, waiting for an image from the CT scan. Who knows how House managed to sneak them in? House was impatient, waiting for the image to appear.
They were chatting about something. Neither of them remembered what the conversation was about right when the scan completed.
House fell silent. His eyes stared straight at Wilson, and Wilson stared straight at his. The last time this happened, it was bad news. The last time this happened, House had to tell Wilson he was going to die. The last time this happened, it turned both of them into ghosts.
This wasn't like last time.
"The tumor… shrank," House looked incredulous. Wilson stared back in disbelief. Then, they both started to smile.
Two ghosts, and one was coming back to life.
Assumptions are definitely a dangerous thing.