Chapter 7 - James Wilson

For the first time in a long time, he felt real joy. For the first time in a long time, there was a reason for real joy.

The step was so small and delicate, so inconspicuous, but it was done. A step in the direction of his memories, and House had taken it before Wilson's eyes, even if he barely understood it.

They were now in the car together, Wilson in the driver's seat at the steering wheel, House on his right in the passenger seat, both in a good mood. As they drove, they talked about his memories, the brief excerpt from his previous life that he had seen. And although that shred was so insignificant, it meant a lot to Wilson, and he could tell that his friend felt the same, for he saw the relief glow in his eyes. Even the stoic House could hardly cover up how much the loss of his memories was gnawing at him.

Before long, Wilson parked his car near House's address and got out, just as his friend did.

"I'll come in," Wilson explained shortly, House nodded. They both knew that he would not let his recently discharged patient stumble into his strange apartment alone. They both probably also knew that Wilson wanted to be there if something stirred in House's head as soon as he walked into his home. Partly out of sheer curiosity, but also partly out of concern, because who could know when the first negative memory crossed his mind. And Wilson didn't want to think about him being alone. Although, of course, he had to admit that he couldn't be by his side all the time to take care of him. Even if he would prefer that.

A few minutes later they were both standing in front of apartment B at number 221. They both stared at the green door for a moment in silence, and Wilson was almost as if he could hear their two hearts pounding excitedly in the silence. Then House reached for the doorknob, put the key in the lock, and pushed the door open.

In mute expectation, entering the small apartment was almost eerie, Wilson thought as he followed behind his friend and closed the door behind him. He watched intently as House looked around, how his attentive gaze searched for memories as if they were lying around like scraps of paper. He walked slowly, limping, through his living room, which was so strange to him. He ran his left hand along the brown leather couch, touched the dark wooden furniture until his gaze caught on his piano and stayed there for a few seconds. Wilson thought House was going through another flashback, but it didn't seem so, because shortly afterwards the diagnostician took off his jacket and sat down at the instrument.

Wilson was impressed to see how House instinctively moved to one of his favorite pursuits, music. How sensitively his fingers touched the individual keys and how soon he began to play, as if he had never done anything else in his life.

"I can't remember the process of writing it, but somehow I know I did that," the friend's rough voice muttered absently during his song. He didn't even look at Wilson, instead seemed completely absorbed in his play, and he was clearly enjoying it. Wilson had rarely seen him like this. House had liked to play even when he was there, but he rarely indulged the music as he did now. It was as if House was releasing something by playing, even his damaged leg bobbed for a moment to the beat of the melody he had once composed himself. Reluctantly, Wilson felt a certain melancholy when he wondered whether House could never otherwise fall in love with making music because of past events, and now it was only possible because he had forgotten the past. Once again he thought he realized that the past had done much deeper damage than anyone could see. But he vigorously shook off the thought that was the epitome of upsetting him. Instead, he sat on the couch and listened to the fine piano tones until the song ended.

Then House leaned back on the piano stool and stretched his arms, staring thoughtfully into the open space.

"Do you know the feeling when something is just right?" He broke the silence and asked Wilson a rather unexpected question, which was only followed by a sway of his head. But House didn't seem to be expecting an answer, because he went on straight away. "I can't remember anything and all of this is strange to me, but somehow I feel at home. Funny, isn't it?"

A few hours later, Wilson was sitting on the couch in his own apartment. He had spent quite a while with House, they talked and explored the apartment. No new memories had come up, but somehow Wilson didn't think that was so bad, because his friend had seemed very peaceful and content, and that was the main thing for now. Still, if he didn't remember, then at least he couldn't remember anything bad. And that consoled Wilson for that evening. Or so he thought.

The clock showed half past ten when the phone rang and House's name lit up on the display. On the alert, Wilson sat up straight and picked up his cell phone. If he had just sunk into a comfortable half-sleep, now he was wide awake and felt his pulse rising steadily.

"Hello?"

There was no greeting on the other end of the line, just a huff and a gasp. It did not tell of pain, rather of stress, as Wilson interpreted it, but that did little to calm him down.

"House, are you okay?"

What a stupid question, he thought, as soon as he had uttered the words. Obviously everything was not going well or House wouldn't be calling him.

"Can you come over?" said the friend's rough voice, pressed. He didn't sound restless or hectic, much more depressed.

The last syllable had not yet faded when Wilson had gotten up from the couch, turned off the television and went to the door. As he passed, he threw on his jacket and then disappeared.

Less than half an hour later he was standing again in front of the green door with the big "B" in the middle and knocked. House opened the door a few seconds later.

"Thank you," was his greeting before stepping aside and letting his best friend enter. Wilson eyed him carefully. Something in his gaze spoke of uncertainty, he looked harried, not directly panicked, but almost a little intimidated. It was as if something had terrified him enormously, which he didn't need to be afraid of, but which still required a conversation with a confidante.

Wilson hung his jacket on the rack and sat on the couch, House followed.

"What's wrong?" Wilson asked directly and in a warm, understanding voice. He already had suspicions that had raged in his mind on the drive, but he was covering up his own restlessness as best as he could to listen to House.

"I think I remembered something," House replied slowly, his forehead furrowed in doubt as if he couldn't be sure it was really a memory. Wilson didn't understand.

"You think?" he asked, bowing his head.

House stretched his legs, took a few moments to think before proceeding to explain.

"I watched TV. Some thriller or something, and I think I remembered something." The doubt was still written on his face like a big question mark, as if he couldn't trust his own senses.

"I can't really explain it, but I think ... I was shot." Like a cornered predator, the deep blue eyes looked at Wilson, who didn't immediately understand why House was so upset. Sure to remember how a bullet punctured your own body was certainly anything but pleasant and certainly difficult to digest, at least at first. But House wasn't like that, not even without memories, that he would get so upset about it. Wilson frowned examiningly.

"I don't understand..." House continued in a perplexed voice. "… Why?"

It was then that Wilson understood what cornered the former cynic so much that he saw no alternative but to call his friend and ask for advice. It wasn't the experience itself that stressed him, but his own inexperience. The inexperience regarding himself, the inexperience of what kind of person he was. He didn't understand why someone would shoot him, he didn't understand what kind of personality he was, that someone would point a gun at him, and maybe his memoryless head didn't want to admit it either. That he was a person who some people sought after life.