Rock Songs and Razorblades: Epilogue
One Year Later...
"You're late!" Dr. Alex Wood called cheerfully, as Wilson stepped out of his Volvo onto the black and white gravel of her meandering driveway.
"Sorry," he answered automatically; but he knew she saw the smile in his eyes, shining behind the spectre of repentance.
The drive over from 221B Baker Street was nearly twice the distance than it had been from his post-divorce lodgings at the local Holiday Inn. He knew it. Mostly, he scheduled in the extra time it took, especially navigating the Saturday shoppers' traffic through Princeton's centre. But, once in a while, he left late on purpose and basked in the little thrill of having a few extra miles to go, of having a home to come from – and return to.
"What've I told you about lying to me?" Wood demanded, mock-sternly.
She rose from her knees where she'd been planting a cheerful red and yellow array of chrysanthemums in the bed that snugged up against the front of her house and dusted the earth off her palms onto her black jeans.
"Lie to you? Me?" Wilson deadpanned.
Tucking his car keys into the front pocket of the navy hoody he'd stolen from House, he followed her around through the little gate that led behind her house and onto the wooden porch. Habitually, he crossed to the rail that overlooked her rambling garden and perched on it, back propped against a pillar. From here, he could easily keep his attention on the swinging sofa where she took up her seat near the window of her lounge or let it flee across to the wooded landscape enclosing the lawn and the tall chestnut mare grazing peacefully in the field beyond the trees.
"Well?" Wood prompted lightly.
"Ten days."
Pride and incredulity jostled in his voice. His left hand strayed up to gently palm over his right bicep, explore again the strange absence of the rectangular bulk of a bandage beneath his sleeve. His fingers skittered down, sought the rubber touchstones of the three elastics he still wore looped around his wrist at all times; but he released them without twanging.
"Ten days and counting."
It would have been fifteen, had he not plucked up the courage to dash his parents' hopes of further grandchildren and secure an invitation for House to come to the annual Thanksgiving celebration in the autumn, not as his friend but as part of the family. Three days of touch conversations with every relative in the Hyphenated Tribal Clan of Wilsons, Rosenburgs and Wassersugs had triggered an irresistible need for catharsis and closure in cold steel, hot scarlet, antiseptic and gauze.
The bathtub full of leeches that had appeared on the third day hadn't had quite the same effect; but it had broken the cycle. Ten days later, there was dust settling on the self-medication kit he kept atop the cabinet over the bathroom sink.
"Congratulations," Wood said, voice quiet but her brown eyes bright with confidence and faith. "Ready to try another ten?"
Wilson's heart gave an anxious hiccup. He closed his eyes and focused on the summer sunlight stroking his cheek, the steady supportive presence of his therapist and the faint heady scent of bourbon, sweat and Doritos that clung to the navy hoody: House's indelible signature snug against his skin. He reminded himself that he had not a lonely hotel but a home to go to, not only Baker Street but his childhood one out in the Skylands. And still had his safety-net in its locked box. But it was no longer a painful, self-perpetuating secret that trapped him in a prison of self-enforced isolation and privacy. It was something that he could use – or choose to discard in favour of a phone call, a treadmill, or a fierce embrace.
"Yeah," he realised, surprise and certainty mingling in equal measure. "I am."
[The End].
That's it. For real this time ;) Thanks to everyone who read, remarked, and enjoyed the ride!
