INTRODUCTION: Set in-between seasons 7 and 8. House, in prison, writes drafts for letters he ultimately doesn't send. Canon-compliant, with a slight hint at an AU.
CHAPTER 1: WILSON
"Dear Wilson,
How have you been? I honestly wish you the best, even though I'm perpetually stuck at the worst.
You may wonder how prison looks like. Being in a cell is like being in Mayfield, only slightly worse. Back then, when I was committed into Mayfield, I hoped I could get better, I hoped I could improve and cease being a broken man, defined by immense and horrible pain. As events have proven, I screwed up again.
Now, I'm here without hope. I'm here because I need to pay for my transgressions. I'm here for lashing out and giving at others an idea of what it means to be in so much pain, physical and emotional, that you can't take it anymore and need to do something drastic.
You maybe would like to know about my new environment. I share the cell with a big guy named Asofa. He tries to appear intimidating, but in reality he just wants to hide his weaknesses. He's almost harmless. There are some people here who are more screwed up than I am. The worst is a guy named Mendelson. His body is like a mosaic of hatred and bigotry, with all the swastikas and neo-Confederate tattoos. That's the kind of fellas I'm stuck up with, for good or for bad. Sometimes I can't help but ask myself if this is really the place I deserve to be stuck in, a bottomless pit, containing the worst human sewage, me included.
Something that annoys me is that I don't have a whiteboard available, so I have to write equations on the cell walls. As of late, my old interest in physics has been rekindled. The thrill of solving riddles, of exploring the uncharted land and actually coming to know how stuff works is what has been drawing me to physics, even to the detriment of medicine. With my prospects of getting my license back practically zilch, I think I'm gonna try my hand at physics on a professional basis.
You may ask me how I spend my time. I sit around the cell all the day, except for when I work as a janitor. You know how I decided to become a doctor, when I saw that buraku in Japan. In this prison, I'm doing exactly what the buraku did in the hospital in Japan. The thing is, my medical credentials don't matter much here. The doctors in this prison must have paid or licked many boots to get their posts. I shout my advice concerning the patients, and as a result I get more and more solitary confinement.
Only one doctor here is different. I think her surname is the same with one of the first Presidents. Her first name must start from J, if I recall correctly. In some aspects of her personality, she reminds me of Cameron. The biggest difference is that she comes from a privileged family. But, privilege isn't something she's proud of. Instead, she feels guilty, because she's rich, while others suffer from poverty. She's actually tried to help me, but I'm beyond help, I told her that myself. In another universe, maybe I could take her under my tutelage and teach her what I could, pertaining both to medicine and life in general. I don't know whether she's understood who I am yet.
Who I am... I'd better have said who I was. Who am I really? A medical mastermind? An ass who's pushed away every one who tried to help? A delusional psychopath? A drug addict? A dumped and broken man? I frankly don't know anymore. Maybe I never knew, maybe I could never decide who I am and who I wanted to be.
Even now, as I'm writing, pain is coursing through my entire body and soul. They give me two Vicodin a day, but the gangs make sure I never get any relief. Almost all my medication ends up in Mendelson's hands, literally. I can't describe the pain to you. Not all things can be put into words.
I miss a lot of things. I miss the monster truck rallies we used to attend. I miss stealing your food from the cafeteria tray. I miss our conversations, when I'd walk into your office and interrupt your working or perusal of your patient files. I miss the motorcycle rides. I miss the feeling of the wind whipping at my face. I miss the sight of the world as it is, unbound, expanding and free.
The world is overrated, it's a terrible place to be born, to live in and finally to die alone in. But, oddly, I miss the life I used to lead before being thrown in here. I miss all the games and pranks we've played on each other. I miss your friendship, Wilson, and I know I don't deserve it anymore, after all I've done. I know my actions are unforgivable, and I'm paying the price.
I understand you don't have any desire or inclination to come and see me, to see that empty husk of a man ruined, broken beyond saving. At this point, I'm sure that even your friendship would just add more pain to my wounds, and I'm not referring to my physical injuries. Pain is omnipresent, Wilson, and if I'm glad for one thing, it is that you aren't forced to endure what I have to live with every day, every single damn moment.
I'm afraid I will soon have to put this pen to rest. I've wasted too much time in this letter, which you may just rip to pieces upon seeing the name of the sender. I won't fault you for this. Maybe it's the right thing. Perhaps the name of Gregory House deserves to melt away like snow in springtime and sink into oblivion.
Wherever you are, my friend, I have finally found the courage, in this time and place, to admit how important our friendship has been for me.
I wish you all the best, Wilson, and I sincerely hope you will associate with better people, finally finding what you want in life.
Yours sincerely,
House"
House sighed and, immediately after having finished writing the letter, he tore it into pieces, cursing himself for having bothered to write it in the first place. As he threw the scraps into the garbage can, he sighed, feeling a tear forming at the edge of his eye. He wiped it with his sleeve, his janitor duty forcing him to leave all thoughts of the letter behind.
