Who Are You, When You're At Home? (part 2)
House stood staring for several seconds at his long time friend. James Wilson had been his friend since college, but the man who stood just on the threshold of his condo was a stranger. No light of pleasure lurked in those dark eyes. His Jay was not here to forgive or forget.
Finally, Wilson held out his hand. In it was a pill bottle – the word, Vicodin could clearly be seen.
"You forgot these."
House closed his eyes for a brief second, seeing the image of himself, rushing (if it was possible for him to rush) out of the hospital after his confrontation with his friend. He had forgotten everything even his new supply of Vicodin. He had so few pills remaining, it would have been a very long night if . . . if Wilson hadn't cared enough to bring them to him.
In a voice so quiet, it was barely above a whisper, House replied, "Come in."
Seeing that Wilson was not going to, House stepped back from the doorway, whispering softly, "Please."
Even then House thought the barrier between them might have been too great, but finally the handsome younger man entered the condo. Behind Wilson's back, House closed his eyes again and took a deep sigh of relief.
Wilson suddenly turned and held out the pills once again. "You forgot these," Wilson repeated. Hesitantly House took the pill bottle from him.
"Thanks."
As Wilson handed over the pills, his eyes revealed something, but House wasn't quite sure what. At one time, House would have sworn he could read the man's very thoughts . . . they had been that close, but now the man with the cane wasn't sure. That in itself was a change. For so long he had been sure . . . about almost everything. Almost twenty years ago now, he had made a decision, and now it was back again wreaking horrible ramifications. He didn't know what was going to happen, but he had to try and repair the rift that had developed between himself and his only true friend.
"I want to apologize for what I said."
Wilson's head flew up as he stared into House's blue eyes. "Oh really, and is that going to make everything okay?"
House was shaken. Wilson hadn't spoken like that to him in almost twenty years. The venom . . . or was it hurt . . . took his breath away. "I'm . . . I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything."
Wilson laughed a harsh laugh. "Now isn't that great? You're the one who destroyed everything with your demands . . . your fears and yet I get the past thrown at me. God, why do I put up with it?"
Within seconds, the younger man was out the door that had been slammed so soundly that it was still reverberating.
As House came out of the stunned shock that had hit him, he barely noticed the pain radiating through his hand. He had been leaning on his cane, holding it so tight that the blood had ceased to circulate . . . and yet that pain was still not as bad as the pain he was feeling deep in his interior. The agony that he had felt when he had suffered the infarction years before had dominated his whole body; his very will to live, but the pain he was feeling now inflicted a different kind of pain one of desolation, abandonment, and loss not of mobility, but of the very essence of his friendship with James Wilson.
Suddenly, House's belly could stand it no longer. It reviled him as Wilson's words had called him to task. He barely made it to the toilet before a wave of nausea overcame him. For the next few minutes his body repudiated him and everything that he had eaten in the past few hours. It also regurgitated his hard won Vicodin before its pain killing relief could be completed.
House hung onto consciousness but little else. He didn't know how he had gotten onto the floor by the bowl. The smell was horrendous, but he barely noticed it. He had fought against clinic duty because he didn't care for dealing with patients, but this encounter with the despair of loss, shook him to his depths. He had lost Jay twenty years before; he had accepted it, why was he behaving so anally now?
Pain from his crippled leg (how often he had refused to acknowledge that concept) shot through him. He was now on the floor, wallowing in smells reminiscent of the best three day binge, with pain wracking his body. He needed his Vicodin, but the bottle had disappeared as he had struggled to reach the porcelain refuge. What was he going to do?
Obscurely the thought entered his mind . . . too bad I don't have a phone in the john like the rich boys do. He began to laugh then a new wave of pain shot through his leg. Finally . . . finally, relief came to Greg House . . . it arrived on the swift footed charger in black as oblivion overwhelmed the stricken man.
End of Part 2