19.) Envy

"James Wilson."

"All right," he sighed, hefting himself off the chair, "time to go effortlessly humiliate myself. Then again, I'm pretty sure the 'Viva Las Vegas' T-shirt has already accomplished that."

"Well, you've got nothing better to do," House smiled, "and I'm here, which automatically makes it cool."

"You're right. Prancing around on a stage is infinitely more important than my patients," Wilson snarked. "I'm still bitter about this. If it wasn't for this screwed-up friendship, I wouldn't be stuck here with a blinding headache and a questionable drug swimming around in my bloodstream."

"Oh, like it's the first time," House replied, his voice laced with a healthy dose of sarcasm. "Honourable Saint Jimmy, who refuses to let anything other than antidepressants and dangerous volumes of alcohol touch his bloodstream. Let us all bow down to his holiness."

Wilson just rolled his eyes and set off for the stage.

"I'll miss you!" House called after him as he left. He pretended to choke out a sob and rubbed his perfectly dry eyes. "It's just so traumatic when he's away…"

"I'm sure you'll survive the agonising three minutes of separation," Taub replied dryly.

"Maybe I should take your route and get a bit on the side whilst he's gone," House bit back.

Taub shot him a murderous glare. "That was a good one," Chase admitted.

"Don't encourage him, he'll only get worse."

Wilson trudged onto the stage, looking disparagingly at the slightly dingy remnants of the incomplete set. The director averted her eyes, trying (and failing) not to laugh at the state of him.

"Hi."

"Your outfit is very…stylish. You have a very distinct…look."

"Yes, it's called sleep deprivation and chloroform," Wilson deadpanned.
"And I'll take Envy."

"Okay," she said evenly, "who are you most envious of?"

"My ex-wives, most likely."

"That's interesting. Why's that?"

"Spoken like someone who's never paid three alimonies," he sighed. "Their houses are like pawn shops. They have all my stuff, they bought it off me for a very cheap price - or for free - and to get it back I'd have to give them my left kidney and my non-existent first-born son."

"Bitter. I like it," she smiled. "Works well in the role. So, why do you think you're particularly suited for the role of Envy?"

"…I'm envious of people?"

"Good one, Sherlock. You're a genius beyond compare."

"Actually, I prefer Watson."

"Describe how you feel envy. When. Why. What it feels like. What it tastes like." Her eyes had suddenly become bright, eager, inquisitive, like a young child learning about emotions for the first time. The thought crossed his mind as to whether she was an extremely curious psychopath.

"Okay," he replied, looking at her oddly, "my best friend is an ass. He is not socially unaware; he is in fact entirely aware of social rules and courtesies, he just chooses to stick his middle finger up at them and do whatever the hell he wants. I envy him that. I have to weigh up every action, every word, and what their possible effects on people will be, lest I somehow hurt someone. It's just, so, tiring. And he gets to bypass that, at the small cost of never being able to form a real relationship with anyone except me and getting punched once every few weeks. Yet I have the exact same problem with women – hence the alimonies – and I don't get the luxury of being able to lie back in my chair, pop a few pills and casually insult the universe, life and everyone, knowing I'll get away with it. Except the pills. But antidepressants aren't nearly as glamorous as painkillers."

"Antidepressants?"

Wilson mentally slapped himself. "Yes. I'm clinically depressed."

"But you're a doctor."

"Strangely enough, doctors get sick. It might also come as a revelation to you that circus clowns also get sad sometimes," he said sarcastically. "I'm sorry if I've destroyed your world view."

She looked back at him, annoyed. "I meant, doctors are supposed to have the most fulfilling job of all. Surely that'd make you happy?"

"Yeah…doesn't quite work like that. At least not after you see the first hundred perfectly decent people die under your care."

"True," she admitted, "but surely that would curb any envious tendencies you had? Realising that however badly your life was going, at least you were alive and physically well? That other people always had it worse?"

"That would make sense," Wilson said slowly. He looked as if he was going to finish the sentence, but then stopped himself. The director leaned back in her chair, resting her chin on her palm and looking at him as if she could see him clearly for the first time.

"But it doesn't for you. Wait," she gasped, "are you envious of your patients? Your cancer patients?"

"No, of course -" his resolve failed him and he sighed, resigned to his fate. "Yes, I am. I've never been much good at lying. That's House's domain."

A faint flicker of recognition flitted across her eyes, but she shook her head and focussed on him. "How can you be jealous of people with cancer? They get depressing adverts, so clearly they can't have it that good."

"They get to cut through all the other misery that exists in their lives," he explained. "Like House, they no longer have to do anything else that bores or hurts them; they can do whatever they like, say whatever they like, and they have the greatest excuse in the world. Everyone drops everything for them. All they have is love, for the short time they have left. The only bad part is the treatment, the pain - and I just wouldn't do it. I'd just take the few weeks or months I had left and make them the best of my life." Wilson's words faded, and he stiffened, realising how they sounded.

"So...in some ways, you think people with cancer are lucky?"

"God, no," Wilson said, sounding far more tired than he had in a while. "I just think everyone else is extremely unlucky, and life goes to hell after about two decades."

"Spoken like a true pessimist."

He brought his hand to his forehead and sighed again. "House must be getting to me. And the drugs, of course."

The director thought about enquiring about 'the drugs', but judging by the look of that brunette talking about velociraptors and guns, she decided against it. "Who else are you jealous of?"

Wilson thought to himself. The green-eyed monster that had set up camp inside his chest was stirring in its cage. "Every person out there in that waiting room, for one."

"Seriously? I've had them in here, and none of them appear to have their lives in great shape right now."

"Well, Chase and Cameron, for one," he interrupted her, as if he hadn't heard what she'd said, he'd been caught up too much in his own thoughts. "But not even because they're in love - I've had that, three times over - it's because they're equal in their relationship. With all of my ex-wives, and even with House, I've always been the one putting all the work in, and then no matter how hard I try I can't manage and the walls fall down around me. I'm just one man," he said, almost desperately. "The main reason House is still here - and will likely always be here - is because we work best when I give up trying to fix things and just accept that we are the perfect level of screwed up. But he's the only one who has standards that low." Wilson ran his hand exasperatedly through his hair, memories and bitter-tasting jealousy misting in his eyes and lingering on his tongue.

"Cameron and Chase - they're equal. Sure, Chase chased her down," he stopped for a second. "Wow, that irony took a while to sink in. But once they started their relationship, they've always since compromised. I can't do that! I compromise for other people, they just sit there. It's almost like I can't even let them do things for me, because then I'd owe them somehow. Or maybe I don't even know what I want any more. They do. That's why they work. But such a big part of me has become acclimatised to wanting whatever other people want, so that's what I do. And eventually the tiny selfish part of me that remains starts complaining and I get bitter. Endlessly bitter." Wilson's face had contorted into a scowl, both at the world and at himself. "Maybe House is right. Maybe I have sold my soul."

"I hope you got a good price for it."

"Not really. I got a pinewood desk, a maverick leech of a best friend and a weekly prescription."

"Ouch," she replied unhelpfully. "Maybe you could get a store return."

"I think Beelzebub's warranty on souls expires after thirty days. It's been around...let's see...oh yes, pretty much forever."

"Tough break. I hope the prescription's good, though."

"It's complicated." He frowned, as if thinking about something he didn't want to be thinking about. "I told House I wouldn't tell him about the pills because it was personal. But it was more than that. If I talked to him about what the pills do for me, I'd have to explain what life is like without them, and that I've been on them since a few months after we met. The only reason he found out is because I changed prescription."

"What's life like on the pills?"

"Normal. Colours aren't any brighter and my patients still die on a far too regular basis, but apart from that, life is normal. Clear. It makes sense."

"What about without them?"

"Think Fifty Shades of Grey, as in the literal colour hues." A few fairly disturbing thoughts ran through his mind and he shuddered. "Everything's dull and dark and miserable. The last time House came into my office when I was off my medication, I sent him out."

"Why?"

"Because I didn't want him to see me like that. Weak, pessimistic, feeling like I wanted to cut out my life as if it were a tumour, encompassing everything. And also, I didn't want him to realise that when I'm not on my medication, I see things just as darkly as he does when he's in pain. If not worse. If he knew I was as dependent on pills as he is..." Wilson gulped, a lump stuck stubbornly in his throat, "he'd break. He's supposed to be the fragile one. Not me."

"You can both be fragile. There's no rules against -"

" - you don't know House," he cut her off. "He can't deal with his best friend being broken as well. And I don't want him to. I have other people to look at me sympathetically when I'm hurting. He's there to make jokes and take my mind off it. Which works a lot better." His voice had become choked up now, and he squeezed his eyes shut, willing any tears back.

"Hey, are you -"

"I'm sorry, I don't - I have to go." Wilson looked around agitatedly, before bolting through the curtain again, it swiftly floating closed again before her lips could even form a "Wait."

"Wilson!" House exclaimed. "Thank God you're back. As much as I hate thanking Mr. Non-Existent up there." He glanced pointedly up at the ceiling then returned his gaze to Wilson. "I hope the separation was as painful for you as it was for me. What did they make you talk about? Anything juicy that I can sell on the black market?"

"No, nothing really," he lied effortlessly, feeling a wisp of guilt stick in his lungs like cigarette smoke. He wanted to cough. Or to scream.

House looked at him again, staring, and this time concern flashed in his eyes, but he didn't show anything. "I knew you'd be just as boring on truth serum as you are normally," he sighed. "I bet if they put you on LSD, you'd still care for your hallucinations so much they'd run off just to get away from it."

"More than likely," he replied, but his slightly red eyes said something else.

"Thank you."

House just smiled, and Wilson resolved that he would tell him, soon.

Then again, he'd said that twenty years ago.