Eight Bells: Chapter Two

A/N: Somehow it's always like that. I start a rather short fic and it just gets longer and longer. Chapter Two was supposed to be the last chapter, but I will add at least one more.
The fic wasn't supposed to be /that/ sad, but I hope you'll like it and please review.

House had just been asleep for a few hours when the piercing sound of the telephone ringing woke him up again. Gruntingly he pulled his pillow over his head to shut out the sound. He had been dreaming and the pictures faded so fast that he had already forgotten what his dream was about.

When the ringing did not stop, he reached out to his nightstand and grabbed the phone without opening his eyes. He pushed the small button to take the call, but did not speak.

"House?" After a long pause he heard Cuddy's concerned voice. Groaning unwillngly he opened his eyes and blinked into the sunlight that fell through his window.

"House, are you alright?" Cuddy's voice sounded tired and was still a little shaky from crying all night.

"I was. Until you called."

House heard Cuddy catch her breath. He knew he was a little harsh, but he did not care.

"We were worried about you when you left yesterday," she tried to keep the hurt out of her voice, but still sounded a little colder than before.

"I know you miss Wilson," she went on, when House stayed silent. "It was particularly hard for you -"

"I'm fine!" House cut her short. He felt the urge to hang up, but was sure she would call again or even worse, knock on his door.

"We have some good psychiatrists here at the PPTH," Cuddy said cautiously. She knew this wasn't a topic that was easily discussed with House.

"It usually was Wilson who talked to you and …," her voice broke and House heard a series of sobs.

He did not want to hear Cuddy cry, he did not want to talk about Wilson - not with her and for sure not with any shrink -, what he wanted was to talk with Wilson.

"Yea, maybe you should go and talk to one of the shrinks. I still need some sleep." House glanced at the radio clock and sighed. It was almost noon.

He waited silently until Cuddy sighed exasperatedly and gave up on her plan to help House. For now.

"See you on Monday then," she said quietly and hang up without waiting for House's reply. He had not intended to reply anyway and was relieved to hear the clicking that ended the call.

-----

House pulled the blanket up to his chin and pressed his face into his pillow. He wanted to get back to sleep, to a dreamland that kept him away from reality, but sleep didn't come. Instead his thoughts wandered back to the night before. He still wasn't sure if it had been real, it had seemed real though. He had been able to touch Wilson and to talk to him.

House stretched out a hand to the empty side of his bed. Wilson had never slept there beside him, but sometimes, when sleep just had not come, he tried to imagine what it would be like if Wilson was there with him. He had imagined what he would have looked like, had tried to summon his smell. And somehow in his mind that side of the bed was closely linked with Wilson.

The empty side of the bed felt cold and no matter how hard House tried to imagine Wilson's warm body, the sheets stayed vacant.

After a while House had to accept that his futile attempts to go back to sleep were not working. He sat up and cast the bed a hostile stare. It had always stayed empty. House had always told himself that it was no use to talk to Wilson. Things would happen when the time was right. But was the time right for Wilson to go now?

A heavy weight lay on his chest and House took a deep breath to get some air into his lungs. The day had just started and he already felt tired.

-----

On the early Sunday afternoon, the cemetary looked even more like a park than at the funeral the day before. House had to zigzag his way through the graveyard to avoid all the people who came to visit the graves of their loved ones who passed away.

The emptiness and despair had returned after Cuddy's call in the morning. The moment he had hobbled past the couch on his way to the kitchen, the sureness that Wilson was gone for good had swamped him. He had stood there motionless with his hand on the blanket for a while and then had decided to drive to the cemetery again.

The fresh grave was hardly visible under the heaps of flowers that friends and family members had left there. It still choked House to think that Wilson was buried under the flowers and the heavy soil, locked in a coffin. Didn't people usually bury things they wanted to forget about? Bury the hatchet, bury an argument…
But he did not want Wilson to be buried to be forgotten.

"It's just the bodys," a low voice said. House looked up to see an old lady standing in front of him. He hadn't been aware that he had thought aloud.

"The soul cannot be buried. It remains with the ones who loved." She turned around and left. House could still hear her murmuring: "Just the bodys."

I want his body back, too! House wanted to shout after her, but lacked the strength. What good was it to have some imaginary soul with him. He couldn't see it, argue with it, laugh with it. And he would never be able to touch it.

The thing House regretted most, was that he had never told Wilson what he felt for him, had never held him close or kissed him. Regret was new to House and it hit him hard. He felt beaten, having to cope with so many feelings at once: Loss, regret and the horrible guilt of his miserable life going on while Wilson's had ended so early.

-----

House stayed at the grave until it was getting dark. He watched families come to lay down flowers on graves and some lonely looking people who cried at the graves of their lost lovers.
He did not cry. The cold he felt despite the warm sun clamped his heart and it took him a huge effort to remember to breath in and out to make it through the day.

People were standing at the graves, whispering prayers – prayers to a God that had ripped their world apart and left them in pain – and others were talking to their lost ones, with eyes that pleadingly rested on the grave, hoping their words were heard.

House did not pray. He did not talk to Wilson, either. Again, he felt as if he had to yell to make his friend hear him, sleeping in his coffin, unaware of House sitting up here and missing him.
He had to suppress the urge to dig and free Wilson from his subterranean prison, imagined Wilson's thankful eyes, when he would finally be back in the sunlight again.

The golden writing on the stone stopped glistening when the sun slowly set behind the trees. With a sigh House lifted his head that had rested on the tombstone, while he was sprawling next to the grave. His legs were numb from sitting on the ground for hours. The stabbing pain in his right thigh was all he felt. He ignored it and pushed himself up, one hand on his cane the other one on the stone.

Thanks, House thought and patted the stone. Wilson was the only one who would ever be allowed to help him up.

Before turning around to leave, he read the ingraved name one more time. Dr. James Evan …

"Wilson," House whispered, speaking out the name he had always called his friend. With his head held low, he slowly made his way back to his motorbike to drive home.

-----

Back in his apartment, House did not know what to do. Drinking beer had seemed alright as long as he knew Wilson would be there to drink with him soon. Watching a movie had been fun when he knew he could make stupid comments about it with Wilson later on.

Playing the piano was the only thing that seemed to be in order when he was feeling lonely. With a glass of whiskey and a bottle of Vicodin, he sat down. His fingers lay on the keys, but refused to play. He knew a lot of tunes, tunes about loss and despair, but there was no song he could think off that could express this fathomless sadness and loneliness he felt right now.

The bell clock clicked in a vain attempt to strike seven bells. House got up and touched the cool brass. His fingers were shaking when he turned the key once. A single, weak 'ping' came from the clockwork, then the sound died again. House turned the key a few more times and listened to the loud ticking of the clock. His heart beat along with every tick in unity and for the first time in days he was aware that he had a heartbeat at all. Just like the small wheels in the clockwork that pushed the hands forward, his heart pumped the blood through his veins, keeping his organs alive. Why?

He took the clock with him and set it against the music stand on his piano. The ticking felt oddly compfortable and House started to hit the piano keys simultaneously: a gigantic clock that indicated the passing time. Useless time, because it couldn't be shared.

-----

House was so lost in the rhythm that he jumped when the clock started to strike eight bells. The bells resounded in the silent room, leaving a ringing in House's ear even after the last sound had ebbed away. His heart, suddenly so much faster than the clocks ticking, tried to find his own beat again.
Twenty-three hours since he had seen him.
House looked around to the spot where Wilson had appeared the night before.

"I'm over here."

House spun around again and there he was, leaning against the piano and smiling at House's puzzled face.

"Wilson," he managed to say and then fell silent again. Like the night before, his friend was half transparent, half solid.

"You wore the same ugly tie yesterday." House glared at him, not really knowing what to say. After the grief he felt all day, he was relieved to see Wilson again.

"Oh sorry. Please forgive me for not choosing the clothes I died in to your liking," Wilson snapped and for a split second House was afraid he would leave again right away.

"You can stay an hour, right?" he had to make sure.

"I can," Wilson confirmed. "But I don't have to." … if you don't behave. The last part of the sentence was left unspoken, but hung in the air anyway.

House nodded.

"I didn't asked you to come back this time." He desperately hoped his words came out as a question, not as an accusation.

"You did." Wilson pointed to the bell clock. "Eight bells. You wound it up." He smiled.

House stared at the clock.

"I didn't know you could come back."

"I can. Everytime you call me."

"Then you never have to leave?"

"I always have to leave. " Wilson looked sad. "At two bells it's over."

House made a gesture as if to wipe all concern away.

"But you can be with me for an hour every night?" he asked hopefully.

"As long as you don't forget to call me," Wilson nodded.

A heavy weight was lifted off House's chest. He had not lost Wilson completely. All the things that were unsaid could still be said one day. Suddenly he remembered something.

"Have you heard what I said yesterday while you were leaving?" House asked uneasily.

Wilson looked at him with big innocent eyes.

"I don't know. What did you say?" He smiled slyly as he watched House fumbling for words, but kept his face straight, when House looked up to face him.

"Nothing," House said softly, not able to get them out again.

-----

"Want a beer?" he asked suddenly to overcome the awkward silence and was already on his way to the kitchen.

"House." Wilson stared after him. "House!"

"Hm?" House stopped mid-step.

Wilson pointed to his half-transparent body. "I can't."

"Why?" House ignored his gesture. "Still have to drive?"

Wilson stopped dead. His eyes showed how much he was hurt.

"I wasn't drunk when I had the accident," he explained in a toneless voice.

House nodded curtly and went to the kitchen. His anger that had come up so suddenly, was gone again. Why couldn't be things like they used to be?

When House returned to the living room, the scene looked familiar. Wilson sat on the couch, his feet rested on the small table. He examined his hands, holding them close to his face, seemingly fascinated of the transparency.

"I'm sorry," House whispered when Wilson refused to look up.

"There was a girl." He lay his hands on his knees and kept looking at his pants through them. "She was about five years old and she suddenly stood in the middle of the street."

The sadness in Wilson's voice made House cringe. He had heard the story from the police, but listening to Wilson telling it, made it even worse.

"It wasn't your fault." House still stood next to the table, waiting for Wilson to lift his feet and let him pass.

"I was too fast."

"She shouldn't have been there." The anger was back. "Had you just ran her over, you'd still be able to drink beer."

Wilson looked up to him, shocked first, then sad again. He knew House for too long to expect anything else. House had lost something and that was all that mattered to him.

"Will you let me pass?"

"Just walk right through," Wilson did not feel like moving. He leaned his head back against the cushions.

"No."

Wilson looked up to him.

"I will not walk right through you. I will not treat you as if you weren't there."

"House, I'm a ghost." He took his feet down anyway and let House pass between the couch and the table.

"I won't," House said again, letting himself fall on the couch next to Wilson. "I've done that often enough," he added softly.

The tv wasn't on, but both looked at the screen as they had alwas done, yearning for a piece of normality.

-----

"What was it you wanted to tell me yesterday?" Wilson asked as the hands of the clock made their way towards 1 am.

House shook his head slightly, but turned to face Wilson when he felt his eyes on him. He loved these brown eyes, how they read him and how they spoke to him. There were always books to read in Wilson's eyes. Sometimes a story, more often an endless lecture. House loved them still.

"I …," House looked down at Wilson's hands He saw the blue fabric of his pants under them and even the brown cushion of his sofa, reminding him that his best friend, who was still so close to him now – was dead. "I miss you," he whispered, swallowing hard to get rid of the big lump in his throat.

Wilson lifted a hand to House's face, but let it fall back before it touched his stubbly cheek.

House wanted him to say something terribly hokey like 'I'll be always there for you" or 'You'll never be alone'. Something to convince him, that Wilson was not gone, that there was no reason to miss him. He wanted to hear it and bash him for that, but still savouring it.

"That's okay," Wilson answered and House closed his eyes to shut out the pain of missing him.

The bell clock rang twice. Two bells. Wilson's hour was over. And sure enough, when House opened his eyes, his friend was no longer there.

"See you tomorrow," he said into the silence and closed his eyes again.