Chapter 4 - James Wilson

The days passed, but they seemed like an eternity to Wilson.

He was sitting in his chair in his office, leaning back and his eyes tightly closed, but he couldn't doze for a second, let alone sleep. For days his mind had been revolving around House, whose memories were still gone.

Wilson had fervently hoped the amnesia was temporary and would soon resolve on its own, but with every day that passed that House failed to regain his memory, his hopes faded and he became bitterly aware that House might never be again who he was before. Physically, he was almost completely recovered, gradually being weaned from the pain medication he was given in the hospital, and it couldn't be long before he was allowed to leave. Out into a world House didn't know anymore.

Wilson opened his eyes and checked his watch. It was almost noon and soon the team would be standing in front of his office door and waiting for him, because they had agreed that they would visit House together. Wilson had thought it was best to wait before they struck House with his old life. Secretly, of course, he had hoped that his mental state had improved by then. Since this was not the case, however, he and the team would probably have to work together to ensure that the diagnostician found his way back to his old self.

And then there was a knock on the wooden door. Wilson looked up, straightened his wrinkled clothes, and cleared his throat.

"Come on in," he called to the team, but when the door opened he didn't look into the faces of Chase, Taub, Park and Adams, but into that of House. He stood there, still dressed in the hospital gown, with his right hand on the IV pole, which he rolled beside him. Wilson could hardly believe his eyes and opened his mouth to say something, but he was speechless.

"I'm bored to death," muttered House and pushed his way into Wilson's office, slamming the door behind him. Without asking, he let himself fall on the couch at the other end of the room and sank into the pillows. He laid his legs casually on the table in front of him and looked at Wilson.

"You can't just get up and go," he protested when he finally got his voice back. He was secretly deeply relieved. It was so typical for House to run off when the situation bored him, and even this small, seemingly insignificant gesture gave him hope that he wasn't lost forever after all. Although he reprimanded him with words, the corners of his mouth twitched until he gave in and grinned.

"Why not?" said House, stretching. "I really have to get out of here. The entertainment is lame and the food sucks. And I can say that, although I don't even know the better alternative." His blue eyes flashed mischievously. Although he couldn't remember his former life, he was quick-witted as always.

Reluctantly, Wilson found his case interesting. It was really exciting to see the essential parts of his personality he was broken down to, and yet he was unmistakably House. The friend had noticed this early on. He was still moody, liked to throw around sarcasm, and he was still smart and read things in people that others couldn't read. That was fascinating, and it was also a bit comforting.

"Tell me, Wilson..." House shook his head thoughtfully as he rubbed his hand over his right leg. "The leg really hurts ... is that still from the accident?"

The joy that Wilson had just felt evaporated suddenly. So far he had only told House basic things about him, like his name, where he worked and lived, and of course he had told him about the accident that caused him to end up in the hospital and suffer from amnesia. They hadn't talked about his past before, Wilson had hoped they'd both spare themselves a conversation about it, but he had been naive to believe that House wouldn't ask sooner or later.

"I'm afraid, no..." he heard himself say in a husky voice and sighed. He was afraid of revealing parts of what had probably broken him back then. But it wouldn't be fair to keep the truth from him. "You have had this injury for a very long time," he began, sitting up straight in his chair with his hands clasped over his stomach. He told his friend about his infarction, the muscle death in his leg and the suffering he had experienced as a result. That he hadn't been able to walk properly for years and that the chronic pain would probably never go away completely. But then he stopped.

"There's more." Oh, his intelligence was both a blessing and a curse as the former cynic leaned forward and eyed Wilson scrutinizingly. Wilson could hardly deny that he would have liked to spare him some details of his tragic story.

"This event was very difficult for you," he muttered sadly and sighed. "You were married then, to Stacy Warner. Your marriage fell apart after this incident when, while you were in a coma, she decided to have the dead muscle tissue removed. "

With high attentiveness and undisguised alertness, Wilson observed every little movement in his friend's face, every inconspicuous flash in his friend's blue eyes, which, to his astonishment, looked much more thoughtful than sad or shocked.

Without saying a word, House leaned back against the soft pillows of the leather couch. Seemingly lost in the world of his own thoughts, he rubbed slowly but rhythmically over his damaged leg. What was he thinking at that moment?

The passing minutes seemed endless until House finally moved again, took his legs off the table and stretched his stiff limbs. He looked at Wilson completely composed.

"What do I usually do about the pain?" was his next question. His voice sounded as neutral as ever, and that too was so appallingly like the grim House. He was calm, or at least acted like that, because what he had just learned he would deal with himself. He processed in silence, he didn't speak while he was thinking, and he didn't talk about the content of his thoughts, even though sometimes he should. It seemed to be in his comfort zone to treat sensitive and private matters accordingly and to worry about it alone. Although it was interesting that such a trait did not appear to be based on experiences and the feelings associated with them, but rather was a part of the primal House. But maybe that was proof that his style worked for him and was spot on, and that motivated Wilson not to intervene and let him shut off the information and his feelings about it.

His question, however, worried Wilson, which was why he was silent for a moment. Though honesty with his best friend was important to him, everything in him was reluctant to tell House about his Vicodin addiction. Although House would find out sooner or later anyway, Wilson couldn't bring himself to mention the drug that had gotten him into quite a few messes.

"Well, your work is your therapy," he finally replied. In fact, it wasn't even a lie. After House's discharge from the mental hospital and his subsequent withdrawal, he had been able to live well without Vicodin, and a decisive factor in this had been his work, which he always enjoyed despite all the complications. That was probably why it came so easily from Wilson's lips, because he did not break his pursuit of honesty.

Just then, before House could answer, there was a loud knock on the door. Without waiting for an answer, the assembled Team House stepped into Wilson's office, and looked more than a little surprised at the diagnostician, who looked at least equally perplexed at the four strangers.

"May I introduce: your team."