Understanding life, friends and destiny…
House walked the hospital corridors. Everywhere felt tired, yet he did not. Being wired was not the best sensation to experience at one in the morning, when your only friend is at home. At his own home.
Why didn't destiny ever lie in his favour? Why couldn't he at least understand it? If there was one thing House hated more than being wrong, it was not understanding something. It made him an excellent doctor, and an awful human. "Who really wants to be human?" House thought.
House grabbed his bag from the meeting room desk. On it was pinned a note. It read: Go Home! Wilson must have left it; he was here until eleven…
He saw Chase's coat. The idiot must have left it. House considered the horrible things that he could have done with it. He looked in the pockets, amazed to discover the amount of trash Chase kept in there: rubbers, pencils, string, a plastic elephant and the most interesting of all, his pager.
House switched it on. It beeped as though irritated at being forgotten. A message flashed across it: "Rob. Sarah here. You are an hour late. Thanks for nothing."
"How interesting" House said to no one in particular
Another message arrived: "Bobby, thanks for a great night. Jane"
And another: "Hey Sweetie. Sorry you had to go yesterday, I suppose it comes with being a doctor. Call me, I'll be ready whenever…". This was the most interesting to House, as he was aware chase had not been called in yesterday evening. She sounded eager. The dark horse…
He thought about Chase. The words unnecessarily outspoken, Australian traitor sprang to mind. Underling followed. At least house had power.
Cameron was another matter. She cared too much. It shouldn't be possible. She was pretty and sweet, but she seemed almost cloying.
Foreman was pretty much what it said on the packet. He liked to be right (didn't they all?) and he liked to understand. And if he could break and enter in record time, what the hell…
At least he didn't know where House lived…
Cuddy was a different kettle of fish. He could see that sometimes she wished she could be a man. It would make her powerful and people would take her more seriously. She couldn't do that. Possibly because of her passion for stilettos. Possibly because of her obsession with breasts…
She probably would make a good man, if a little short…
He sighed. If he was analysing them why couldn't he bring himself to understand Wilson? He didn't want to. He didn't want to think about Wilson. Every time that he did he felt embittered. He had looks, he had style (if someone would take the time to discuss ties with him) and he had humour. Why was he married? Why couldn't he realise house wasn't a bad best man because he wasn't good at it. He had to keep his speeches short, he couldn't risk his voice cracking; he couldn't lose control in front of that many people.
He picked up his bag. Perhaps he could stop at Wilson's. Or not, Julie wouldn't take it well. He settled for going home.
The 'vette sped up as House drove home. He swerved into the drive and nearly wrote the car off. Some moron had parked a Buick on the drive.
He banged into the house, preparing to call the police, the mayor and the army if he had to.
What a surprise it was to see Wilson on the sofa. He slept soundly, his hair falling onto the pillow.
"How did you get in? Is Foreman here to?" House commented, he mimed looking around. Wilson roused himself.
Wilson didn't acknowledge this, simply saying "I'm getting a divorce."
Finally House understood destiny….