Chapter 8 - Gregory House

What kind of person did you have to be to forfeit the right to live in someone else's eyes?

The memory had hit House completely out of nowhere. Had he just been lying comfortably on the couch and staring into the flickering television, his thoughts actually somewhere else, in the next moment he had slipped away from the here and now, just like in the hospital. He had seen himself, across from him a strange man with a gun. In his ears he could still hear the deafening crack of the gun and he could still feel the pain in his stomach where the bullet had entered his body.

House couldn't quite read his feelings right now. He didn't recognize what was inside him as fear, at least not of the situation he had been through. Rather, it unsettled him what this piece of his past should tell him. What it told him about itself.

He saw from Wilson's understanding look that he had recognized his train of thought. But he also read in the friendly, brown eyes that he didn't know what to say. What could that mean again?

House looked away. He had to collect himself.

"Who am I, Wilson?" It was the question House had been asking himself for so long. The question he was somehow afraid of, because what if he couldn't take the answer?

Wilson, however, intervened in the emerging, dark thoughts.

"I know what you're thinking now..." he muttered, giving his friend a sincere look. "But you don't have to blame yourself... every good doctor, every good person makes enemies on his way..."

House narrowed his eyes scrutinizingly, looking for the reluctance he suspected in his friend's eyes, but to his own surprise he found nothing but honesty.

Wilson seemed to recognize his distrust and sighed heavily.

"House..." he started and leaned forward a little. But he couldn't form any further words because his best friend harshly interrupted him.

"It can't be that something like this happens to a normal person... something's wrong with me!" His voice sounded angry, but this anger wasn't meant for Wilson, who nevertheless flinched from the sudden volume.

"I'm sorry," House added now, forced a little more calmly and ran both hands over his cramped face. Wilson just nodded to him in understanding.

"I know this is not going to be easy right now." House just snorted. How could Wilson ever understand how he felt right now? What a torture it was to be so caught up in the dark about yourself.

House rubbed his damaged leg a few times, stressed out. He had quickly noticed that it hurt more when he was upset or when something bothered him. Unfortunately, in the current situation there was little that didn't bother him. And the fact that it hurt so badly annoyed him even more, because the pain robbed him of the concentration he needed so badly. And the more angry he got, the worse the pain got. It was hopeless.

Sighing, House leaned back on the couch and closed his eyes for a moment, took a few deep breaths and tried to force himself to calm down. Getting angry wouldn't solve the situation, he had to remember that now. He needed patience. But it seemed to him that he had never been, or ever would be, a patient person.

"What made this man shoot me?" He came back to the topic after a few minutes of silence. He had opened his eyes again and was now looking a little less sternly at Wilson. His hesitation almost made him flare up again, but he bravely swallowed the looming unrest.

"You... told his wife that he cheated on her," Wilson explained slowly. House frowned. That answer raised almost more questions than it answered.

"Why?" he hacked. "And how did I even know about it?"

"When you treat a patient, you usually do everything you can to find out as much as you can about them. Most of the time you come across the solution to the case and heal them." Wilson audibly chose each of his words with great care and glanced at House every now and then. "In the case of Jack Moriarty, however, his infidelity had nothing to do with his illness, as it later turned out."

For a long time House didn't answer, didn't even look at Wilson anymore, but thought, thought about how he should think about this information about himself. What conclusions he should draw from his past behavior, whether he liked what he did or not.

"He only shot you out of selfish revenge. You didn't do anything wrong. You probably spared that woman many years of disappointment." Wilson's voice became audibly restless, almost hectic, he tried hard to talk House out of any doubts. However, that was no longer necessary.

"It wasn't wrong," House replied dryly and finally looked up again. It almost amused him when he saw the slow change in his friend's expression as he began to smile gently, evidently reassured by his words.

Satisfied, House got up and hobbled towards the kitchen.

"Thank you," he managed to mumble. "Beer?" He asked Wilson without turning around.

"Sure."

Shortly afterwards he came back into the living room with two open bottles of beer in hand, dropped onto the couch and put his legs on the coffee table in front of him. Wilson did the same after a short time and before they knew it, the flat screen TV flickered in front of them. But neither of the two really focused on the content, instead they kept talking to each other.

"I can assume that such scraps of memory will suddenly pop up again and again?" muttered House, taking a long swig from his bottle. In fact, his words didn't even sound like a question because he was already very sure of his assumption. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Wilson nod tentatively. House sighed. "Great."

"I could…" Wilson paused in mid-sentence and seemed forced to swallow the rest of the words. House looked at him skeptically.

"Yes?" He checked and frowned. Wilson returned a determined shake of his head.

"Forget it, I was just thinking out loud."

House sat up, wrinkling his nose.

"Now tell me," he demanded sternly. Wilson quickly gave up. Interesting, House thought, apparently he was someone who wouldn't give up and who wasn't worth evading.

"We… lived in a shared apartment at the time. I just thought... now that you will probably have a lot of questions all the time, it would be useful... just for a while."

House realized that Wilson was afraid he was about to mock him. He didn't think his suggestion was that stupid though. Having a friend around who can help you with all the questions that come up would certainly not be wrong. What was reluctant in House, however, was the thought of being a burden to Wilson. He couldn't tear him, who had already sacrificed so much time for him, out of his own life. Maybe he was in a relationship, or some other obligation House was reluctant to stand in the way. He made a defensive gesture.

"Forget it, I can hardly ask that of you," he grumbled dismissively and averted his gaze. Secretly he longed a little to not have to be alone again with the next nightmarish memories.

Wilson read him, to House's discomfort, seemingly like an open book.

"It's not like I have anything to do right now," he joked, grinning. "I'm single and not very busy. You might not be that inconvenient, I could certainly use a little company." House looked at his friend again and narrowed his blue eyes. He tried to see in the seers of his counterpart whether he was lying for his sake or whether his words were true. He found no sign of a lie, however, so he decided to believe him.

"All right," he replied and took the last sip from his beer.

Wilson seemed visibly relieved. It had probably been on his mind the whole time to leave his lost friend alone. House already knew that Wilson was someone who cared about those around him more than it was good for him. A terribly self-destructive trait, House thought, but also one that could be priceless in a friend.

Wilson straightened up after he finished his beer.

"I'll pack some things and then come back. It is better if we stay in your apartment, here you will remember something sooner. "