Reconciliations: A House MD Story Chapter 25, a house, m.d. fanfic

Reconciliations: A House M.D. Story

A/N: I found this chapter difficult to write because a good portion of it is from Wilson's point of view about his relationship with House and I wanted to stay as true to the established character as I could while advancing my own plot at the same time. I hope I've come at least a little close to succeeding. Please comment, as it really does help me when I'm planning how I'm going to write. For those of you who have been so faithful in reviewing I offer you my deepest thanks!

Songs that helped inspire this chapter include: "Hound Dog" by Elvis Presley and "When I Grow up To Be a Man" by the Beach Boys.

Chapter Twenty-Five

"Chloe."

It was Gregory House's first word as he emerged from the netherworld of drug-induced unconsciousness. Even before he could envision her in his mind his subconscious was fixated on her. As his brain woke up he pictured her smile, her doe-like brown eyes, the sexy curves of her body, the sweet scent of rosewater in her silky dark hair, the sweet taste of her mouth on his, the caress of her voice whispering in his ear. This vision of beauty was quickly replaced by an ugly vision. Chloe was lying in the dark, bound, motionless. Her chest failed to rise and fall gently; she didn't breathe. She was slipping away, further away and he knew that he would never be able to catch her in time….

"Chloe!!" House screamed, sitting up, instantly awake. His heart pounded so hard and fast in his chest that the diagnostician thought he was about to have a heart attack. Adrenalin flooded his veins; he panted hard, looking around him like a madman for someone or something that wasn't there. He sweated profusely as his stomach flipped in fear. She was dying—he knew it. Chloe was dying and he didn't know where she was or how he could save her. Desperate tears ran down his cheeks but he didn't notice.

"Greg," a familiar voice said, and a large hand grabbed both forearms gently but firmly. "Greg, can you hear me?"

House turned to the sound of the voice and only just then realized where he was and who was with him. He was in a ward room, on a single bed. It was Mayfield. He was in Mayfield and sitting on the edge of his bed, holding onto him to keep him from jumping to his feet and running away was Dr. Darryl Nolan. The large African-American psychiatrist was observing him with obvious concern.

"Nolan," House panted, every muscle in his body wanting to bolt. "I have to find her! I can't be here. Chloe's been taken!"

"I know," Nolan told him calmly, nodded. He didn't release his grip on his patient. "Greg, you need to calm down! You're breathing much too hard and quickly and I'm concerned for your physical health right now! I need you to focus on taking deep, slow breaths, okay? I'm going to check your pulse, but I need you to relax and promise not to get out of bed."

House didn't know what to say. He was operating on instinct, and his 'reasonable' mind was being overwhelmed by its 'emotional' counterpart. All the same, he didn't push past his therapist. The psychiatrist had a hand on the diagnostician's wrist as he checked his radial pulse.

"One hundred and forty-seven—far too fast," Nolan told him, shaking his head. "Greg, you need to lie back down." He turned to a nurse whom was standing in the doorway, unnoticed by the diagnostician until just then. "I need one mg of Ativan right away!"

The nurse moved quickly. House resisted the gentle pressure his therapist put on his shoulders in an attempt to make him lie down.

"I can't stay here!" House insisted, yelling louder. "She could be dying as we speak! I have to help find her—please!"

The desperation in his own voice startled House. He was nearly hysterical—there was no doubt in his mind that Chloe had been kidnapped by the same people who had nearly killed Thirteen and Foreman and had succeeded at killing Taub. There was no reason to believe that they would treat Chloe any differently. He couldn't lie down and relax and wait for news that she was dead. His heart wrenched at the idea and he felt sick to his stomach.

"You can't help her if you end up having a heart attack," Nolan said firmly. "Please lie down on your own or I'm going to be forced to call for help to see it done for you. I don't want to do that to you, Greg, so please lie back for me now!"

House resisted a moment longer, searching his therapist's face for any sign of weakness and finding none. He actually hadn't expected to find any. Nolan was okay, but he could be a hard-ass when he wanted to be—or needed to be. Finally House relented, lying back down.

"Thank you," Nolan said to him in relief. A minute or two later the nurse returned with a small paper cup. Inside were two zero point five milligram tablets of sublingual Ativan. Nolan took it from her with a nod of thanks and then handed it to House. "Put these under your tongue."

House obeyed and felt them begin to dissolve into his saliva, some of it absorbed directly into the tissue under his tongue and some of it going down his throat every time he swallowed. Nolan took the empty cup from him and rose to throw it out into a small wastebasket near the door. When he did so, House spied Wilson sitting in a chair silently against the wall, having been blocked from House's sight by the psychiatrist.

Wilson looked serious. House locked his icy blue eyes on the oncologist's, hurt rising to the surface.

"You drugged me," the diagnostician said, his voice as cold and hard as steel.

"I didn't have any other choice, House," Wilson replied, sotto voce. "You were ready to run off half-cocked to get yourself into a lot of trouble."

"There was another choice!" House insisted. "You could have helped me."

"I did help you," Wilson told him. "You need to be here, especially now. If you were back in Princeton circling around your office at PPTH or pacing at the apartment you'd be a basket case by now. Who knows—you could be flying higher than a kite in an effort to control the fear and pain—or you could be dead, because you simply couldn't deal with it."

"And being here is going to change that how?" the diagnostician asked angrily.

"Here you are safe," Nolan interrupted. He moved to stand at the end of the bed. "I don't approve of the way James got you here, Greg, but I do believe this is the best place for you now. James has assured me that he will keep you updated on Chloe and the others and I assure you that I will not hold back or censor anything he reports from you. I'm also telling you that as long as it doesn't compromise your treatment here you have my okay to continue your investigative work here."

"But Chloe--!" House began to protest only to be cut off.

"Chloe is no closer to being found with you in Princeton than she is with you here," the psychiatrist argued evenly. "Until her location is identified you can't do anything there anyway. At least here, Greg, you're safe from being attacked and killed by anyone, including you." Nolan paused a moment to allow that to sink in. "Our security here is considerably higher than that of Princeton-Plainsboro for a good reason."

House was frustrated at their inability to understand how urgently he needed to be in the thick of things. He didn't want to hear secondhand from Wilson that Chloe had been freed or had been found dead. It was crucial that he was in Princeton so he could act on a moment's notice. Why couldn't they understand that?

"I don't care about my own security," the diagnostician insisted. "It doesn't matter what happens to me!"

"And just because it matters to the rest of us that you're alive and well isn't of any significance." Wilson told him with an edge of bitterness in his voice. He was rubbing the back of his neck, something he did when he was upset or, more commonly, when he was frustrated. "Because if anything happened to you, House, I'm not certain…what I would do."

You'd do just fine," House answered with a scowl. "I'm the needy one, not you. Think of all the free time you'll find when you're no longer burdened with worrying about me. You'd have time to find and entertain future wife number four."

"Do you honestly think that's what this is about?" Wilson exclaimed, hurt. "You're not a burden to me, House. You're my best friend. I've made a lot of mistakes—I've treated you like a child, lecturing and moralizing for which I truly am sorry—but having you as a part of my life isn't one of them. Do you remember what we discussed last night? Do you remember what I told you?"

"You only said it in response to me," House accused. "It was the 'polite' thing to say."

Nolan looked from Wilson to House, his face and body language displaying his obvious confusion. "What conversation are you talking about?" the psychiatrist asked. "What statement are you referring to?"

House didn't say anything. He stared at the ceiling. This was not what he wanted to be doing just then. All he wanted to do—needed to do—was find Chloe and make certain that she was going to be alright. He didn't desire delving deeply into a psychoanalytical discussion of the intricacies of the meaning of his relationship with the oncologist.

When House didn't answer the question, Wilson did. "Last night I had House sleep on a mattress on the floor in my room so I could keep an eye on him. We were talking about his desire to commit suicide. I tried to make him understand that I cared about him enough that if he died I…I would be all alone and I told him not to do that to me. After I said that House thought about it for a little while and then told me that he loves me."

"Great!" House said indignantly, still not meeting anyone's gaze. "Why don't you just tell the whole world while you're at it!"

Wilson ignored the outburst. "In response I told him that I love him too. And I do. I'm frightened what may happen to you, House, and that's why I drugged you to make certain you got here. I admit that it was…wrong. I'm sorry. But it's not like you haven't drugged me before to prevent me from harming myself."

House considered that a moment. He had given Wilson a knock-out drug at the medical convention a couple of weeks earlier to prevent him from presenting his paper on euthanasia and potentially destroying his career in the process. However, this situation was different as far as the diagnostician was concerned. He was not in any immediate danger and wouldn't be—at least, not until he knew whether or not Chloe was okay. Forcing him back to Mayfield may be a contributing factor should Chloe…die.

"I did it to keep you from doing something incredibly stupid," House told him quietly.

"So did I," Wilson replied and the two men locked eyes.

Nolan listened with fascination the interaction between the men. He had remained silent, not interrupting but now he did speak up. "Greg, what do you think is the underlying message Wilson is expressing to you?"

The diagnostician gritted his teeth together and didn't respond. He knew that Wilson had meant well but it didn't change the fact that he was now trapped in a box, unable to get out and join the hunt for the woman he had fallen in love with. He wanted to let his best friend off of the hook, but for some reason he just couldn't; once Chloe was home alive and well, perhaps…but not now, not yet.

Wilson waited quietly, watching his friend carefully for some form of recognition of his feelings, but there was none.

"What are you feeling Greg?" Nolan probed patiently.

"Helpless," House muttered resignedly.

"That's an adjective," Nolan reminded him, "not a feeling. Give me an emotion."

"Anger," was the snappish response. "Fear, sorrow. Good enough for you?"

Nolan nodded. "Yes." The psychiatrist turned to Wilson and asked him the same question.

"I don't know," the oncologist answered. "I guess, for the most part, I feel afraid. I'm afraid of losing my best friend, either by him never forgiving me or by him killing himself should things turn out badly. Either way, I'm not certain if I could…." His voice trailed off as he had difficulty expressing what came next.

"Take your time," Nolan told him gently. "You're not certain you could…?"

Sighing, Wilson said slowly, "I'm not certain I could handle it."

The psychiatrist nodded and then asked, "What do you mean by 'handle'? What would that look like?"

House refused to look over at Wilson but his hard expression had softened somewhat and he listened carefully, waiting for the answer.

Apparently struggling with revealing something so deeply personal, Wilson didn't answer right away. When he did he avoided Nolan's penetrating gaze, staring at the bottom of House's foot instead.

"If House killed himself…I think I would…too."

The diagnostician's eyes were pained but he tried to cover for it by frowning angrily. It wasn't convincing.

"Don't be stupid!" he told the oncologist. "That's the most idiotic thing I have ever heard you say!"

"Greg," Nolan said to him. "It's not idiotic. It's how he feels. He's just as entitled to his feelings as you are yours without being insulted for them. You sound angry. Is that how you're feeling about what James just said?"

Despite the look of warning he received from his therapist House sat up but made no move to get up from the bed. "Yes...no. I don't know!"

"You do know," Nolan told him simply. "Tell us."

House searched for words to speak. "You have a lot to live for, Wilson, even if I was no longer around!"

"Feelings," Nolan emphasized.

The diagnostician exhaled in frustration. "Yes, I feel angry! How could he even think of doing such a thing?" He looked at Wilson, capturing his brown-eyed gaze. "Don't you know how much hearing you say that hurts me?" The moment the words were out of his mouth House wished he could retract them. Too close, he told himself. Too personal. Damn it! Damn Nolan!

"Yes," the oncologist told him meaningfully. "Just about as much as it hurts me when you say it—and I meant every word."

They stared at each other for what seemed to be several minutes as if Nolan was no longer in the room. House was trying to glean something from his friend's face that he'd suspected for a long time but had never allowed himself to entertain for more than a moment or two before dismissing it as utterly ridiculous.

"Are you…," House asked tentatively, "are you…in…love with me?"

There was a heartbeat's length of a pause before Wilson broke eye contact and rolled his eyes in derision. "Pff! Yeah, right! You wish!" He failed to look back at House, looking at House's foot again instead.

House said nothing, pondering that. There had been no surprised reaction upon being asked that, but neither had his best friend responded too adamantly that he was not. His question remained unanswered.

"I'm sorry," he told the oncologist quietly. "I didn't realize it bothered you that much. I won't say it to you again."

Wilson sighed. "All I want is for you not to think about it again."

Silence followed. Nolan broke it. "Greg, do you honestly believe that you could promise him right now that you wouldn't think about harming yourself should Chloe be killed?"

The answer to that was obvious. The diagnostician contemplated lying and saying yes, but for some reason he couldn't bring himself to say that. Reluctantly he shook his head in negation. He did belong here. He knew it, but he absolutely didn't want to be. Fuck, he said to himself, closing his eyes and laying back down.

As he laid there with his eyes shut, he tried not to think about what he was feeling. A sudden thought unrelated to what they had just been discussing popped into his head.

"Sara," he said, opening his eyes and finding Wilson with them. "Did she ever call back?"

"Yes," Wilson answered, nodding, "while you were out cold. She didn't sound good."

"Sara?" Nolan interrupted in curiosity. "Who is she?"

"Chloe's thirteen-year-old daughter," House answered quickly, not feeling the need to explain any further. "What do you mean she didn't sound good?"

"She'd been drinking," Wilson admitted. "Quite a bit from the sounds of it. She said that you knew that she did this. Did you?"

House sighed silently and nodded. "She told me this morning when we were talking. She said she drinks when she's frightened or upset. It started not long after Chloe's fall and brain trauma that took her over a year of therapy to recover from." He proceeded to tell Wilson and Nolan briefly the account Chloe had told him, particularly about how it had been Sara who found her and got emergency help. "I told her to call me before she drank and we could talk about it," he finished.

Nolan smiled. "So you made a connection with her. She obviously trusted you enough to call you. That's great! I wouldn't recommend keeping this from her mother, however."

House nodded in agreement, shifting uncomfortably due to the compliment. "I told her I wouldn't betray her trust so long as I didn't think what she told me could endanger her, but if there was something then I would have to break my promise. I intended on telling Chloe, but haven't so far. Wilson, what did you tell her?"

"I told her to stop hiding from the police in her house and to find one of them for help," was the answer. "I stayed on the phone with her while she did it and then explained it to the police when they found her. They assured me she would be taken care of. I then offered to allow her to stay with me until her mother was found. They'll be getting back to me on that sometime this evening."

"Renting out my bed already," House said, smirking. "I'm suddenly feeling insecure."

"If I'm lucky," Wilson said with an amused smile, "she won't snore loudly enough to wake the neighbors up at night."

"Haven't heard yourself lately, have you?" House retorted sarcastically.

Wilson smiled sadly. House knew what that meant: it was time for the oncologist to go back to Princeton, and leave him behind. House felt his fear and frustration rise up inside of him again, so much so that his chest began to feel tight, a thousand butterflies began to swirl about his stomach like a twister and his breathing began to quicken considerably. This wasn't lost on either Nolan or Wilson.

"Greg," Nolan told him, "I want you to begin to take slow, deliberate breaths in through your nose and out through your mouth."

House frowned at him but reluctantly complied; and just as he had suspected it didn't seem to work.

"House," Wilson told him, rising from his chair and approaching the bed, kneeling next to it by his friend's side. "I promise—I'll keep you updated on what's happening back in Princeton. If there is so much as a whisper about Chloe, I'll call Nolan and leave the message with him, and I'll be up to see you on visiting day." He hesitated and then placed a comforting hand on House's forearm; the diagnostician wasn't fond of a great deal of touch, but from certain people he was a little more receptive. Wilson was one of those select few. "Greg, it's going to be alright." He whispered.

"What if something happens to you next," House whispered back. "Losing one of you will be more than I can handle. I don't know what will become of me if I lose both of you."

"You won't," Wilson assured. "I promise."

House shook his head emphatically, feeling his heart begin to race. "Don't!" he told the oncologist sternly. "Don't promise something you can't guarantee!"

Wilson released his grip on his friends arm and stood up, taking a step back. His face was a graven image of regret. "I'll be fine. You will be too. Cooperate for the staff. I really have to go."

House was panting now, and the pain in his leg was quickly increasing with his anxiety.

"Be careful!" House told the oncologist as the latter reached the door.

"I will be," Wilson said simply and then turned and walked out.

"Oh, god!" House whispered in response to his anxiety and his fear.

Nolan grabbed the chair Wilson had vacated and pulled it up to House's bedside, seating himself in it. "You need to relax, Greg."

"What if that's the last time I see him alive?" House asked him, not expecting an answer because the only answer in his mind to that was one thing: he would die as well. The diagnostician rolled over to face the wall. He didn't want anyone—not even Nolan—to see him cry. He heard the psychiatrist speaking to him but the words sounded like nothing but gibberish and that frustrated him. He curled up into the fetal position, closed his eyes and delved into himself, thereby shutting out the world.

* * *

Wilson walked briskly across the parking lot to his car and jumped in, slamming the door shut. He gripped the steering wheel with both hands, squeezing as tightly as he was capable and leaned his forehead against it, squeezing his eyes shut. Leaving House behind the first time had been excruciatingly painful; the idea of his best friend alone subject to the authority of complete strangers, save Darryl, that is, had caused him nightmares. He had felt like he was abandoning him again, just as he had nearly a year before. Those same feelings still rose up inside of him to strangle him where he sat. He knew he was doing the best thing he could for the diagnostician, but that head-knowledge didn't translate well into heart-knowledge.

He took a few deep breaths and then forced himself to sit up straight and look out the windshield at the looming brick institution that was Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital. The sickening feeling of déjà-vu was palpable in the air around him. For one fleeting second Wilson considered running back into the hospital and liberating the older doctor, but that moment passed and he was once again reminded that House was safer there than anywhere else.

Turning the key in the ignition he could hear the car roar softly to life and he simply sat there a moment longer, allowing the vibration from the running motor to pass through his body, imagining that the waves of energy were washing away with them all of the anxiety and tension in his body. While the exercise didn't eliminate all of his discomfort, it was enough to allow him to drive out of the parking lot and down the long driveway towards the gates of the hospital property.

As he drove further and further away from Mayfield and closer to home, Wilson mulled over the conversation in House's room after the older man had awakened. He believed he understood his best friend's desperate need to protect the ones he loved—because that's how he felt about House. He didn't fully understand his relationship with the older man. It was a deep and abiding friendship, but it was more than that. House was like a brother to him, only closer than that as well. In truth, he was like a lover to Wilson, without the physical intimacy. It couldn't be explained or quantified; all he knew was that he'd easily give his life for the diagnostician if it ever came to that.

So why am I so angry at him? Wilson asked himself. In truth, he already had the answer to that; he just didn't want to admit it, even to himself, because it made him feel like a petty jerk. I am a petty jerk, he told himself bitterly. He sighed, shaking his head in disgust.

He was angry at the diagnostician because the other man had Chloe's heart, and he did not.

Wilson wondered if his best friend really understood how betrayed he felt about the way House had snuck behind his back and wooed the Goddess. It seemed like the older doctor thought it was humorous the way he had fooled him, that it was just another competition between the two of them and he had simply been more ingenious and as a result won the prize. Not that the oncologist believed that the love House professed to have for Chloe was a lie; the mere fact that there was a confession of such strong feelings from a man who had lived most of his life in denial of feeling anything spoke for the genuine nature of his feelings. What the older doctor didn't seem to understand was that Chloe was more than just another skirt Wilson was chasing. As ridiculous as it sounded, when he first saw Chloe yesterday morning—was it really only a day and a half ago?—it had been love at first sight. The oncologist had always been cynical about claims made by other people that such a thing existed until he had experienced it himself. It must have been similar for House—it had been less than two days and the older man was already smitten. The fact that the two men shared that in common did nothing to alleviate his anger.

It had taken Wilson nearly two long years to get to the point where his grieving over Amber's death had subsided enough that he was able to look at another woman and consider dating again. Even so, he had been struggling with guilt over his feelings for Chloe, second-guessing himself over and over. The fact that he was tired of being lonely for the kind of love his best friend could not give him was the one driving force that kept him from crawling back under the rock he had just emerged from and grieving for another two years. Meeting the chaplain had given him a sense of hope for a future that he had been missing for far too long.

It burned in his chest to know that she loved House about as much as the older doctor loved her.

She should be mine, Wilson thought enviously. She should be in love with me. If House hadn't undercut me, she would be.

He was so confused. He loved House but he was angry and jealous of him at the same time. He wanted the best for his friend and wanted to be happy for him, but he wasn't. What kind of friend did it make him to want to take away and possess the one thing that had brought a modicum of happiness to the older man in an otherwise miserable life? Then again, Wilson wondered, what about his own happiness, his own needs? Wasn't he, too, entitled to be happy? Wilson had no idea how to resolve this struggle in his heart. If only he had never seen Chloe—then the oncologist could be the kind of friend House deserved and could be happy for him. If only….

His thoughts were cut off by his cell phone ringing. He answered.

"Dr. Wilson," he said simply.

"Hello, Doctor. My name is Esther Hamilton; I'm a social worker with Child Protective Services in Princeton."

The oncologist sat up higher in his seat. "Yes, Ms. Hamilton. Hello! I've been expecting your phone call."

"I'm calling in regard to the offer you made to the police to foster Sara LaSalle until her mother is able to resume the responsibility," the social worker told him. "I made contact with her mother's next of kin about it. They all reside in Canada but Sara and her mother have dual citizenship between Canada and the United States. Sara's aunt who is listed as the contact person has given her approval for you to foster her niece temporarily; however she wants to speak with you directly as a condition. If you're still willing to do so, we've approved you."

"Wow," Wilson said in mild surprise. "That was quicker than I thought it would be! Yes, I'm still willing and speaking with the aunt is absolutely no problem. I'm currently on my way back to Princeton and I suspect I'll be home by eight o'clock. Is that too late for you?"

"There is no rush this evening, Doctor," Hamilton told him. "Because she was inebriated Sara was taken to the hospital for observation overnight but should be discharged by tomorrow morning. We can meet tomorrow to work out the details and transfer the child to your custody."

"That's fine," the oncologist answered. "Which hospital was Sara taken to, by the way?"

"To Princeton-Plainsboro. Oh! I see in my information here that is where you're employed, as is Sara's mother."

Wilson nodded automatically, forgetting that the social worker couldn't see the gesture. "Uh, yes, that's right," he acknowledged. "Would there be any problem with me visiting her tonight before I go home?"

"There's a CPS worker staying with her overnight as well as a police guard for the child's protection," Hamilton answered, "However I can notify our person there that you will be stopping by and have permission to visit."

"Thank you," Wilson said, relieved. He had been worrying about Sara since his last conversation with her. "What time tomorrow would you like to meet and where?"

"If we could meet at your home, say eleven a.m.?" she asked.

"Of course, that's fine.

"Very good, Doctor Wilson," Hamilton told him. "If for any reason you need to change the time or place, just call our office in Princeton. The automated switchboard will ask you for a name. Just say Hamilton and it will transfer you to my voicemail where you can leave a message—I check it regularly."

"Great!" Wilson said to her. "I'll see you tomorrow, then."

"Excellent. Good evening."

"Good evening," Wilson said in return and hung up, placing his cell phone back into a slot in the console. He exhaled in relief and smiled mildly. He was glad to know that Sara wouldn't end up with a total stranger; House would be relieved to know that as well. The oncologist smiled and shook his head in amazement; last spring the diagnostician wouldn't have given a damn about the disposition of someone else's thirteen-year-old child. It was good to actually see so clearly evidence of his best friend's healing. This stint in Mayfield was just a pothole in that road…he hoped.

Once he reached Princeton Wilson diverted from the usual route he would take to get back to his apartment and headed for PPTH instead.

At the hospital he headed quickly through the main lobby towards the elevator, marveling at the heightened security and police presence. Two uniformed police manned the main entrance where one security guard was under normal circumstances. A couple of others stood around to offer a presence. He noticed that the Clinic was still closed; a Uniform and yellow tape remained outside the door to dissuade any curious individual from straying onto the crime scene and potentially contaminating evidence. Inside the Clinic Wilson could see two investigators still at work.

He headed first to his office to drop off his jacket. His Assistant had laid his mail on his desk before leaving for the weekend. There were several envelopes and one parcel wrapped in brown shipping paper labeled 'medical samples'. He resisted the urge to look through it all; it was the weekend, he was off duty until Monday. It could wait until then.

Wilson brought up the admitting information on his computer—a little harmless hacking trick House had shown him—and located the room Sara had been assigned. It was a private room on a general ward. Armed with that information he headed there. Upon arrival he found the room being guarded by yet another uniformed officer. Wilson flashed him some I.D. and the cop went into the room. He watched as the officer spoke with a middle-aged woman sitting in a chair by the door. She nodded and then the cop returned to his post.

"You can go in," the officer told him.

Wilson nodded his thanks and stepped into the room. He addressed the CPS worker before approaching the bed. She barely acknowledged him before returning to the Harlequin novel she was reading. The oncologist went to the bed and pulled up a chair; he sat down.

Sara was sleeping, snoring lightly. Her long caramel-colored hair was splayed out across the white hospital pillow beneath her head. She looked pale. He imagined she hadn't slept a great deal the night before with her mother in hospital in serious condition. If it wasn't for the alcohol she drank he doubted that she would be sleeping now. She had Chloe's high cheek bones and pouty lips. In House's office the girl had looked like she was a little on the stocky side but lying in the bed now she looked quite fragile and petite. He hesitantly touched a lock of her hair. It was silky soft in his fingers.

After his last marriage had failed, Wilson had mused over the fact that once again his chance for a normal life, with a wife and perhaps a child or two was never to be. He was in his forties already and a part of him was beginning to contemplate his life and his contributions to the world. A legacy was one of the things he considered. He was a good doctor, some would say a great doctor, and he had contributed to the healing of a great number of people from cancer—he'd also lost a large number, but that was to be expected in his field. He was a good friend—not a perfect friend by any means. Heaven knew how many mistakes he'd made when it came to his best friend, but he wasn't a total jerk either. Yet, he felt there was something missing.

He wondered what it would be like to have children of his own. Wilson had hoped that eventually he and Amber would marry and have a family of their own. He had felt ready for that stage of his life. Amber's death had ended that dream and he had convinced himself that it would never come true with anyone else.

Would I be a good father? he wondered as he looked down at Sara. Could I commit myself to that kind of responsibility and not end up resenting it in the long run? The oncologist wasn't one hundred per cent certain, but he questioned if anyone was certain about that sort of thing until it was thrust upon them by fate, or God or whatever else kept the universe in place.

Wilson sighed and shook his head at himself; dwelling on the matter wouldn't change anything. If anything was to change, it would require him to do something about it. He gently touched the girl's face and then got up to leave. She would probably sleep until morning. He was tired and was ready to go to bed as well. Rising from the chair he headed back to his office for his jacket; it was time to head home.