Chapter 3

Wilson huffs up the steps to House's apartment building stiffly cursing his friend with every bump he receives. He thinks back to the day he'd found House on his doorstep; the day he'd finally finished it with Stacy. He'd felt nothing but pity for the wreck of a man who'd knocked on his door but then he thinks of the last three months of sharing his house with House and he finds a renewed energy to heft the box of miscellaneous crap. There's no way he's sharing any longer.

Stacy had taken her time in moving, trying to wait House out. She'd called every day, she'd visited and tried every little thing she could think of to get through to him. He'd hunkered down at Wilson's avoiding her and nursing his battered ego. He had known somewhere deep inside that simple cause and effect would result in one of the biggest mistakes of his life but the haze he seemed to be existing in wouldn't reveal a clear path to the 'right thing to do'. Life was a blur of PT and the dizziness of his friend, the little white pill's side-effects but somehow his ridiculous pride and over-inflated opinion of himself still couldn't quite let him go.

House himself sits perched on a stool in his newly recovered kitchen. The leg is still recent enough that he is both hyper cautious and hyper clumsy. He has developed an air of indifference designed to perfectly hide the fact that he feels like he has a flashing beacon on the top of his head saying 'Cripple here!', but it denies the truth that every little blow sends bolts of agony flashing through his very bones.

He can hear Wilson cursing him out in the lounge but knows if he goes out there that there's a good chance he'll fall flat on his ass or knock something over with his damn crutches.

'You okay?'

'Huh, yeah, Jesus House what do you have in here?' Wilson mutters under his breath as House cautiously edges his way out into the living room.

'Just, you know, stuff I guess. Just put it anywhere I'll get to it later.'

Wilson can't get used to this new House version 2.0. His ears aren't tuned to the quieter voice, the stutter or the hesitations. What he says now seems honest, straight-forward. There's no deceit, no playfulness, no wit, no smart retort. He questions, he's unsure seemingly of everything around him. His eyes too, aren't quite as they were and seem sunken in his flat, expressionless face. House is grey and the only time his face does bend is to express pain or confusion. Wilson thinks his friend just needs some time and someone to watch his back. He thinks that soon enough, House will come back. He hopes anyway.

'I can't just leave it here, you won't be able…' Wilson trails off as he realise what a wounding blow he'd just pitched.

'Yeah, I guess you're um, you're right…' House seems to float off clanking as he goes, crutches kicking against the narrow walls of his hallway.

Wilson feels a weight in the pit of his stomach and lets out a deep breath. He stumbles with the box to House's bedroom and finds an empty space. A room that used to be full of life and junk and clutter neatly ordered and collected into drawers and cupboards and arranged artfully is now just a room with a bed in it; their bed. The bed he knew that House and Stacy had made their first joint purchase. Now it sits mocking in the middle of the room.

'She's gone then, really gone.' House seems to realise all at once what he had thought he'd wanted and what he'd been avoiding for the last three months.

Wilson pats his buddy on the shoulder and whispers, 'I know, I know.'

'So… I guess uh…'

House can't bring himself to finish the thought, or the sentence so he makes do with dropping his head in an effort to summon some sort of courage. Courage to get through the day, to rebuild some sort of life for himself. For him and his leg.