The McFinn girl proved to be a dead-end, and with no other routes to explore, House wound up at the public library, the one place that had come anywhere close to explaining the whole mess.
He grabbed a wider variety of reference books than before, even nabbing a few from the children's section, though that earned him a few weird looks from librarians and kids alike. Apparently men with limps and stubble weren't allowed to appreciate bright colors and large fonts.
House flipped through book after book, hunting for information through indices, but he found nothing new; they all repeated each other, like a literary echo. Endymion was a real hunk of a dude; Selene (or Diana, or Artemis, or any of number of names) couldn't resist his irresistible looks; he went into a forever-sleep; and they lived happily ever after in his dreams. Yadda yadda yadda. House had known that much even before dipping into 'research.'
And there was nothing about third parties providing the background scenery to the fornication.
House pushed the books away from him in disgust and left them there, not bothering to put them back onto the shelves.
Walking back to his car, staring down at the ground, he turned the matter over in his head. It would seem that both he and Wilson played the part of visitors, since neither of them were 'available' all the time. Meaning, Diana had played the role of Endymion and provided the dream-space for the meetings.
Maybe if Diana fell back into a coma--
House stopped that train of thought then and there. No good could come from that.
But it kept coming back to him, like a low-budget, overplayed commercial. There would be problems, he reasoned, jiggling the keys and unlocking the car door, not the least of which would be the McFinn girl coming back to consciousness once more, rendering the attempt futile. Moreover, if she blabbed about who'd put her back into the coma, it'd land House in jail (permanently, this time). And even if House tried and succeeded, Wilson would nag at him for sacrificing the girl. Assuming, of course, that the plan worked and Wilson actually came back to House's dreams.
He got into his car, glad to be out of the cold, and rubbed his hands. So he couldn't knock the McFinn girl out, tempting as the thought was. Still, there was something to the idea of comas. House assumed they were the modern-day version of the Greek, god-induced never-waking-up-again slumber.
He switched the ignition on, and just like that it struck him: who said that McFinn had to be the one in the slumber? Why couldn't it be he himself? He'd happily play the part of Endymion, if it meant that Wilson came back to him.
He let the car run, heating up, while he thought about this. Technically, this idea should be rejected outright for sheer ridiculousness. Then again, everything so far about this affair was ridiculous, so what harm was there in adding more insanity?
And House liked the thought of being in a coma and of seeing Wilson again. Well, Wilson might not show up--that depended on whether or not he still existed or, for that matter, if he'd actually lasted after his death.
But House was willing to try anything, no matter how radical the attempt might be.
"Hey, you."
The kid-doctor--or so House assumed, from his zit-sporting face and his hesitant, scurrying walk as he clutched a clipboard to his chest--stopped in his tracks. He look to his right, to his left, and even behind until he was forced to conclude: "You mean me?"
"No, the other you behind you. Yes, you!" House said.
"But you're Dr. House!" He gaped. "You don't ever talk to interns!"
House refused to let himself roll his eyes. Of course he talked to interns, provided they were foolish enough to get in his way. But he didn't want to scare the kid unnecessarily; he was already frightened enough for the task House had in mind for him. "Well, you're the exception, aren't you."
A blush tinged his face. "Ah, am I?"
"Yeah. Now come with me, I've got something for you to do."
"Yes! Of course!" The kid matched House's stride, but then stopped. "Only--I was just paged to the ER and I have to go, but maybe we can--" House shot him such a withering, scornful look that the he squeaked out, "But you come first, of course." House led him into an empty patient room. "Lucky you," he said, hopping onto the bed, "You get to be part of a super-special research project: testing out propofol. Gotta make sure it's better than thiopental for faking comas."
The kid opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, like he was flexing his jaw. "Really? I didn't hear anything about this research project--"
"You think you know everything?" House bet he did, but the kid-doctor still shut up. "I've got all the ingredients here--all that's missing is for you to shoot me up with it. What are waiting for? It's Cuddy-approved. But you'll be Cuddy-disapproved if you don't do it."
The kid took the syringe from House. "Are you sure Cuddy authorized this?"
"How many times do I have to tell you!" House snapped. He was starting to regret bringing in a newbie doctor to give him the injection, but it wasn't as if he had much choice. He needed someone by his side in case something went wrong. "You think I'm a liar? Or are you too dumb to do a procedure a monkey could in his sleep?"
The kid bristled, offended at being accused of such base incompetence. "Of course I know how to give an injection!"
"Good. Maybe there's hope for you yet." House plopped his head onto the pillow, sticking out one of his arms so as to be connected to the IV pump. "Now do it." He kept an eye on the kid as he did it--House wouldn't have put it past him to screw this up. But the he must've done it right, for reality started to slip away.
The next thing House knew, he was standing in the hospital's entrance hallway. It was empty: no ornery nurses at the reception, no shuffling patients, no janitors sweeping after discarded gauze. He'd never seen it like this. Frankly, it was eerie.
"House?" he heard from behind.
He knew that voice. He'd been craving to hear that voice.
He turned around, and sure enough, Wilson was there. Faced with the person he'd been seeking these past couple of weeks, House was suddenly shy and embarrassed. He stayed where he was, not knowing what to say or do. Part of him wanted to run to Wilson, but he hadn't run in years, and especially not because he'd missed someone that much.
Wilson showed less self-consciousness and closed the distance between them, stopping only when his feet were about to skid against House's. "Hey," he said, as if House's shyness were contagious.
House looked anywhere but at Wilson. In his peripheral view he saw that Wilson had no idea what to do with his hands, which went from his hips to his pockets and back to his hips again.
Screw this first-date awkwardness; their time was limited. House grabbed and kissed him, tasting and smelling as much as he could, soaking in Wilson's presence. And Wilson paid back in full.
Dream or not, though, they still had to breathe, so they came apart for air. Panting, Wilson said, "You're back."
"That's my line," House protested. "Where've you been?"
Wilson shook his head. "I don't know. Diana," and even with Wilson's spit in his mouth, House was irritated at the reminder at how much more time she got to spend with him in the afterlife, "she disappeared and I--I don't remember. I don't think I was anywhere."
"Hades, maybe," House suggested wryly, and Wilson smirked.
"No, I'd have remembered that."
"Maybe you took a dip in the river Lethe."
"But then I wouldn't remember you either," Wilson said.
And the conversation died there. The relief they'd enjoyed over their successful reunion was dampened by the references to the Ancient Greek hell. They remembered how precarious their situation was.
Wilson let go of House and started to look around. "Is Diana back in a coma? The poor girl, she should get on with her life--"
He was doing it again! "She's not here," House said peevishly. "We're in my coma."
Wilson looked at him like he'd sprouted feathers and started to squawk. "What do you mean, your coma."
"Put myself into one. Had a hunch that if I did, you'd be waiting for me. I was right, wasn't I."
Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose, something House hadn't seen him do since he'd died. As infuriating as House had considered it before--it was the sign of an oncoming-lecture--House was glad to see it again. "Comas aren't toys," Wilson started.
"You're going to lecture me," House said smugly. "You really are Wilson. That thing with you being all cool-as-a-cucumber about everything was strange. What was up with that? You get a personality transfusion after dying?"
"For one thing, you weren't being appallingly stupid," Wilson's tone was harsh. "And, I don't know. I just haven't been as stressed, lately. I don't get as upset as I used to."
"Death is de-stressing," House wondered. "Who knew?"
"No job, no pressure to succeed--it makes a difference."
It occurred to House that this was an opportunity not just to see Wilson again, but to ask All Important Questions that had been bugging him his whole life. "Tell me more about the afterlife."
"It's boring, I guess? There's not much to do. I only had Diana for company, and she's a nice girl, but not someone you'd want to spend too much time with, much less an eternity."
"You poor boy," House mocked. But it made him smug to hear Wilson say, in his own terms, that the McFinn girl interested him about as much as a bowl of gravy. He liked being reminded that Wilson preferred him.
Wilson pretended to pout and, seeing his lips poke out like that, House was tempted to kiss him and get into a serious making-out session. But now that he had a source of answers from The Beyond, he had a ton more questions to get through first. "So that's it? No judgment, no ultimate comprehension, no blinding light of truth?"
"Not so far. Maybe that comes later, when I'm not hanging out in comatose minds."
"Comatose," House mused. "This almost proves my theory right."
"Almost?" Wilson asked. "What theory?"
House didn't answer; his mind was moving along too quickly to help the laggers. "I need actual evidence--seeing and touching you in my head doesn't go far as proof. Tell me something I have no way of knowing."
Despite having been left behind, idea-wise, Wilson caught up. "My credit card number?"
"I know that."
"Ah. Of course you do. Then--" Wilson paused to think. "My first grade teacher's name. Mrs. Kowalski."
House did love Wilson, but sometimes he was simply too silly. "You could not be more boring if you tried. Don't you have anything exciting to pass on? The name of the last nurse you slept with? Julie's bra size? The more excruciatingly embarrassing moment of your life?"
"You know all that," Wilson pointed out. "In fact, you caused that last one. I almost had to change career because of you."
"You're no fun," House informed him. "You were no fun in life, and you're no fun dead."
"Wouldn't want to be inconsistent," Wilson said, with a fond expression, and that was the last House saw of him. He fought to stay, to not lose sight of Wilson or at least get in one last touch; but it all faded away.