Title: Let Go

Author: Me, Cloak of Nettles, your lord and master, you are all my bitches, fit only to be ground into the dust, don't touch the boyfriend, et cetera, et cetera.

Summary: Wilson keeps too many secrets. One of them will cause a fatal situation that will not be resolved.

Pairings: Mild HouseWilson (FEAR THE SUBTEXUAL CANON HOMOEROTICISM), definite ChaseCameron, WilsonJulie...the basics.

Notes: This will change points of view. Oh, and usually I write very funny original fiction—this is my first real attempt at fanfiction. And at real serious stuff.

Warnings: Eventual death, angst, present tense, Julie is a bitch (dude, she so sounds like one), mild OOC-ness for House, very badly researched medical stuff, Chase's POV written as diary entry, Wilson totally depressed, attempted complete lack of humor. ENJOY!

WILSON'S POV

If you look at my patient evaluations, you'd probably get a nice, happy idea of what I'm like. "Dr. Wilson is an incredibly kind man." "Dr. Wilson made my experience less of an ordeal and more of a mere obstacle." "Dr. Wilson is pleasant and open and would never hide anything from a patient, or, I believe, a colleague or friend."

That last one made me laugh and cry at the same time: horrible unhappy laughter mixed with terrible, throat-burning hiccup-sobs. I have nothing to hide, according to sixteen-year-old Eleanor G. Kamke, who had a thankfully mild case of leukemia.

I'm sorry, Ellie (she told me to call her that), but I hide lots of things.

For example, I hide the prescription for Prozac that Dr. Hayek from Psychiatry kindly wrote out for me. I paid her in cash because I didn't want a bill coming home, where someone else might find it. I hid two affairs from two wives and from my friends. I hid the tiny, straight scars that I made by putting them on folds of skin and my hips.

I hid the reason why I developed a subdural hematoma and why, before that, I wouldn't go home unless I was forced to.

I lied. I hid. I pretended nothing was wrong.

I hid too well, and now I'm lost.

The big thing that I hid was that my wife, Julie Annaliese Berhardt-Wilson, hit me. I don't mean she'd give me a clout after too many glasses of wine; I mean that she'd actually knocked me unconscious a few times. It's always for trivial things: being fifteen minutes later than I said I would be, forgetting to do the laundry, stuff like that. One her face got that look and she started nibbling her top lip, I knew I was in for it. I couldn't try to fight her. It's like what Steven King says in Misery: "You couldn't kill the goddess. Dope her temporarily with bourbon, maybe, but not hill her." Or in Lord of the Flies: "Fancy thinking the Beast was something you could hunt and kill!"

Julie is the goddess, Julie is the Beast. A paradox that only served to strengthen her power. I once thought I could kill that raging divine monster with kindness: cutting down on hours, making nice dinners, bringing her flowers after work, but she saw what I was trying to do and it only got worse.

That's when I started putting in extra hours at the hospital. Long shifts. Holiday shifts. Not leaving until Cuddy or a janitor gently pushed me out. I didn't want to go home. When I was forced out of the building I would sit in the parking lot in my car and listen to Cat Stevens and sleep and stare into space and wonder if I could summon up the courage to tell someone.

When I finally did get home I couldn't escape the wrath of the beast. It was getting a lot worse and a lot more painful than it had two years ago, when we first got married.

This story takes place during one of those long shifts.

It does not get any better.

It's a pretty slow day: only one new patient for me, and House doesn't need any of my expertise.

I sit in my office, trying to decipher third-quarter budget reports, when Lisa comes in.

She smiles beatifically at me. She is wearing a terrible red blazer. "Go home, Jimmy. You've done more than enough this week."

Home. It's the day before Hanukkah. I haven't bought anyone presents. Julie would be mad that I haven't started grilling the potatoes for the latkes. Dear God, no.

"It's okay," I lie, shuffling the papers nervously. "I want to get this done."

"Aw, come on. Budget can do that. Come on. House is being let out early too. You can go do boring masculine-bonding things."

House would want to go downtown for lunch. Julie goes downtown for lunch. If she sees me, or my car, or House, or his car, she'll think I've been lying to her about going to work. "Well, Dr. Eternal-Servitude-God-I-Hate-My-Job-Don't-Fire-Me can go. I'm fine."

Her expression goes from mild cheerfulness to frank puzzlement. "Jimmy, you've been here for the past twenty-eight hours. You should go home. Hang out with Julie. I'm sure she misses you."

"Well…"

That one word. That one-syllable, four-letter word. I had accidentally showed true emotion: a glimmer of actual fear.

Lisa's eyebrows go up slightly. She dips her head slightly to one side. "Jimmy, is everything okay?"

"Yes," I say. No fear in this one word.

She doesn't sound convinced when she says, "All right. If you want to cop out early just tell me." The blazer is decorated with sequins. Walking away, they tingle with color. It's like a beacon of light, hurting my eyes.

I have a bad headache suddenly. The lights in my office are too bright. Too bright.

I get up to turn them off.

I fall down.

I can't see.

I can't get up.

I can' t think anymore.

I…