Chapter 10: A Case of Forgiveness

Wilson entered the dark apartment angrily. His tan trench coat was drenched from the rain he had to practically wade through on the way from his car to the apartment's door was almost unimaginable. Once inside the dark apartment, he tried to dust off the rain drops from his coat, and then flipped on the light switch by the door. He was surprised by most the books on oncology littered around the floor in random places, mostly around the black leather sofa, where he noticed House's sleeping form. He approached House who seemed to be in a deep sleep, signified by the pill bottle lying on the ground beside the couch. He picked it up and read the label. No telling how many he took or find out what else he took with it. But he knew in the back of his mind the one, undeniable truth about House: He was too selfish too kill himself. He watched House a moment to monitor his breathing to see if he was okay. Then he noticed the envelope on his stomach and didn't care about the breathing anymore as it was addressed simply to "Gregory".

"What? No flowers?" Came a groggy response from the seemed to be asleep House. Wilson took a step back, surprised.

"How'd you know it was me?" Wilson asked.

"I knew it was you." House paused a second to sit up, slowly, directing his attention to Wilson. "Unless, of course, you're handing keys to my apartment to other people." House groaned a little as he raked his fingers through his hair as he felt a continuous rush of euphoria from the morphine. He began rubbing his eyes as Wilson began his ceremonious, reprimanding, tirade.

"Why haven't you been answering my calls?" Wilson asked furiously as he pulled off his coat and slung it over the back of the Lazy Boy Chair.

"As you have just seen," House countered, pointing to the couch. "I was clearly sleeping." He made no attempt to hide his letter.

"For three days straight!" Wilson exclaimed. House looked at him with indifference.

"I was tired." He explained slowly. Wilson felt like he had the mother of all migraines coming on.

"You had to wake up sometime!" Wilson countered. "And you couldn't even check your messages?" House yawned.

"No, I was watching Oprah. She and Dr. Phil had a three-day special on 'Friends Who Control Your Life'." House then changed the subject. "Didn't I tell you the surprise party for me was moved to Thursday?" House looked at Wilson completely confused. "Why are you here? Bring my mother here without permission and find out she's dying before me too?" Wilson looked annoyed and sat down beside House.

"I'm not apologizing a million and one times!" Wilson groaned and rubbed his forehead. "I just came here to tell you that Cuddy is furious about you just taking off."

"Awe, what's Mother Goose quacking off about now?"

"She's pissed, House. She wants you off this case and frankly, so do I." House looked dangerously at Wilson. Wilson shuddered a little bit from the cold shirt he wore that the rain had soaked through; but his courage waivered inside. "You can't even talk to the patient without making her cry." House felt as though he had been hit in the head with a two-by-four. "She had a heart attack today, House." Wilson looked at him, not feeling as angered but watched for a reaction. House still seemed indifferent on the outside, but anger simmered below the surface.

"What are you trying to say, Jimmy?" House asked in a low growl.

"Well, as you know, stress can lead to heart attacks. But we looked for any clogged arteries endoscopically. Nothing."

"So are you trying to tell me a little crying almost sent her into cardiac arrest?" House asked coldly. Without warning, he stood up towering over Wilson on his good leg, practically screaming. "You have no idea what I've been through! She ripped my heart out and lit it on fire in front of me!" House limped away, angrily, led by his cane. Wilson jumped to his feet.

"You selfish, inconsiderate, heartless, bastard!" Wilson announced walking quickly around the coffee table. House turned back to him for a moment.

"You have no idea what she's like!"

"Are you still trying to play God? This isn't a revenge business!" Wilson sighed and wiped a hand over his face. He was running out of things to say, and getting closer to what he really wanted to say. He didn't want to, but if he couldn't change House's mind, he'd have no choice. He asked calmly. "Just how much do you hate this woman?"

"Let's just say, I wouldn't spit in her mouth if her insides were on fire." House was feeling livid, and he had someone to take it out on. He was on the verge of seeing completely red. "Look at you. You try to save everyone and try to change others, but you can't. You play God in your own way, too, but you're too saint-like to see it. Trying to make sure your own reserved seating is in Heaven. But no, you can't just be happy with that, you want a spot in the V.I.P. section." House couldn't believe the venomous things coming out of his mouth, but he couldn't stop himself. "There are just some things in life you can't control and you need to learn to accept that, or you're as dead as she is."

Wilson felt his heartstrings being pulled in the wrong way. It hurt. He had heard everything House said, and he didn't want to. He couldn't block it out no matter how hard he had tried. It wasn't enough. It was too late. He didn't want to show it, but his feelings were hurt. And he had heard. Every word of it. He diverted his eyes to the floor, spotting the books again. He was tired of being the one who hurt, the one left behind, the butt of the joke. At last, Wilson spoke.

"Yeah. You hate her. Why are all these oncology books on the floor? You trying to take my job?" He looked House dead in the eye; when House glanced to the book case, he knew he had him. "I think, inside, you want to save her. I also think that you put up this self-righteous crap to keep people guessing at what you're really like."

"Let me guess, now you're getting a degree in psychology as well. Is there anything you can't do?" House did his famous mock-awe expression. Wilson sighed.

"I've been what I thought was a good friend to you for so many years, despite you making a fool of me, drugging me, robbing me, and even getting my girlfriend killed." Wilson swallowed hard, and continued to speak before House could open his mouth again. "I've blinded myself to everything you do for so long, that I didn't see what you are!" He exclaimed, and threw his hands down at his sides. "Well, I do now. All the whispers from the nurses and patients of what an asshole you are, it's all true. And through all of it," He paused and motioned at himself over his heart. "I was your only friend. Not anymore. You can't change." He turned his back on House and grabbed his damp coat off the back of the chair on his way to the door. Wilson felt the cold metal under the weight of his palm as he began to turn the knob for his last exit from House's apartment. He paused and turned to look at House one last time. "I thought all this time it was because something horrible happened to you in your childhood that made you want to shut people out. Now I get it. You're just some damaged, addicted, bitter person that will only get his friends in the form of prescriptions." Wilson shook his head. "You're pitiful. I'm taking you off her case."

"On what basis?" House asked, feeling the words like thorns under his skin.

"The basis you want to kill her instead of make her better!" Wilson let go of the doorknob for a moment, and spun around in a whirl of rage and sadness.

"You son of a bitch." House hobbled a couple of steps across the floor towards Wilson. "I don't want her to die." He said somberly.

"Well the way you act, I understand why someone wanted to ruin your life." Wilson muttered under his breath. House was able to pick up the comment through the silent apartment. And something inside House snapped. He made his way towards Wilson calmly and with all the force he could muster, punched Wilson in the face. Wilson automatically dropped the coat from his hand at the precise moment House's fist made contact with his eye and reached up, grabbing House by the shoulders and pulled House to the ground. Wilson's peaceful demeanor was shattered. Fists were being thrown left and right. Knees were being jabbed as hard as they could into the other man's lower region; and grunts of pain and curse words were being flung at each other in the air. Both men battled to get on top of the other to have the best vantage point to harm the other. They rolled across the wooden floor of the living room. Every time one man would try to stand to escape, the other would pull him back down and the fight would recommence.

"I hate you!" Wilson cried out as a knee met with his stomach.

"I fucking hate you, too!" House grunted as he caught Wilson's fists and was trying to get Wilson's weight off of him. Finally, Wilson let House think he was winning for a moment before he reared back his fist and landed a punch right on the bridge of House's nose. House groaned in pain and let go of Wilson, to grab his own face. Wilson took House's moment of weakness as an opportunity. He jumped to his feet, feeling the beginning of bruises at various points on his body forming and blood was dripping from a scathing wound on his cheek where, no doubt, the skin was either broken or scratched badly. He ran to the door, and quickly grabbed his jacket off the floor and ran to the door rubbing the blood onto his shirt sleeve and resumed his place by the door. Momentarily he stood watching House, and assessed his own injuries. He felt a throbbing pain in the back of his head as though at some point, House had grabbed his head and hit it repeatedly against the floor. But he kept his hand on the door handle incase he needed to make a quick exit. Wilson caught his breath and silently willed his adrenaline flow to stop. House lay on the floor in the apartment, writhing in pain, both hands over his face. Suddenly, he moved them away from his face to his sides and laid his legs straight on the ground.

Wilson watched longer as House moved his hands away and then stopped moved at all. Blood was pouring from his nose and mouth and he could see his face starting to swell already. He wondered silently if he was in as bad a shape. And then he saw it. Tears were forming in House's eyes as he stared straight ahead at the ceiling and fell without him blinking. Wilson swallowed, hard, knowing the things they said about each other were unforgiveable. He didn't know how House felt, but he felt like a car accident victim. His friendship with House had skidded off the road and into a trench. But he was still angry. Wilson was angry and talked softly, not wanting to repeat what had just occurred.

"All you do is exact revenge, like it's the world's fault that you're in pain. I've been trying to understand you for almost ten years. I can't help you." He sniffled, but remained composed. "I'm done." Wilson swung open the door, destined to escape the confines of the apartment hoping never to return. As he took his first step out the door, but was stopped by a small, garbled cry from House.

"Wilson."

He stopped in his step, but didn't turn to see his face.

"Remember when you picked me up a few days ago from the motel, and I asked you if you remembered how we met?" Wilson kept the door open in case he wanted to try something else, but the only thing House did, was lay there.

"Yes." Wilson replied.

"I wasn't in there randomly like I said I was…"

A few moments and an explanation of delving into the history of House and Wilson's friendship, saw a broken and bruised House and Wilson sitting on the floor, side by side, against the cool leather of the sofa against their backs, sipping on a bottle of 'Gentleman's Finest Whiskey' as their bruises darkened and their blood stopped flowing from their faces.

"So, after all that, that's what happened?" Wilson said skeptically. House took another shot and sighed, sadly.

"Pretty much, yeah." House responded. Wilson shook his head.

"Well, at least now I can almost understand how your disregard for human life and your conviction to save someone's life got so horribly skewed." Wilson indulged himself in a shot. The unpleasant sting of the alcohol combined with its none too wonderful flavor, somehow made his words come out easier. "It's still wrong to just let her die after all that, though. Hippocratic Oath and all. The Medical Board would have your ass." He playfully jabbed House's already aching shoulder. House considered how many years he put into his career; how many sleepless nights he spent crammed over books, studying for exams. House spoke to Wilson somberly, and for once, completely candidly.

"I don't want her to die. I don't want anyone to die. I know it might not make any sense, but, I just can't make myself stop hating her." House stated, keeping his eyes to the floor, afraid if he looked and Wilson, he'd tell him how truly off the rocker he was. Wilson's brows furrowed together as he answered him seriously.

"You're going to have to let go some time." He advised his friend.

"What if I can't?" House asked, finally looking at Wilson. "Once you stop hating someone, you mourn them. And it's more painful to mourn, and you can't ever make yourself start to hate them again." Wilson drained down one more shot and began to stand up.

"That's a chance you're going to have to take." He stood offering his hand to House, who took it gratefully, and got to his feet with his cane, groaning painfully. "While you heal her, maybe you'll find a cure for hate on the way."

"Wilson," House started pleading. "Don't tell anyone about what I told you, or I'll make you wish your father never paid your mother to conceive you." Wilson smirked at the comment.

"Says the only survivor of the Petri dish." Wilson put three fingers up. "Scout's honor." House smiled at the comeback, proud his 'little boy' was growing up.

"You're an okay friend, jimmy." House said and padded him hard on his bruised shoulder as payback for his earlier mistreatment. "But you're a bad lover. Not one anniversary gift?" He smirked at Wilson. Wilson put his trench coat and made his way slowly to the door, and then he made his way back.

"But the real reason I'm here was to tell you two things. Cuddy is gunning for you. She wants you in tonight, or you're job-hunting." House shrugged, and fell back on to the couch leaned back in his sofa, feeling excruciating pain from the fight. "And Erin's health is getting worse." House mentally prepared himself for another blow. As he listened intently to Wilson as his voice grew softer and caring and Wilson slipped into his role as the oncologist. It almost felt like Wilson was getting ready to tell him, that he was going to die. "She did have a heart attack from unknown reasons, and her pain has gotten so bad we've given her the limit we can give someone of Dilaudid round the clock, but it's not working." House shook his head in understanding.

"In your medical opinion, Doctor, how much long you think she'll be able to last?" House looked up hopefully. Wilson took a deep breath.

"She could go at anytime if we don't act with chemo or radiation. But at the rate she's going, not very long. The cancer's spread."

"Not long?"

"It's not easy to say this. She's in constant pain. We've put her in a medically induced coma. There are shadows on her M.R.I. showing…." Wilson's voice drifted off, not wanting to finish.

"Showing what?" House asked, forcefully. Wilson finished quietly.

"It's metastasized. This is it, House. We've reached the end."