Chapter 3

House sat slumped over his best friend's desk in the darkened office, his forehead resting on his hands. He couldn't remember ever feeling this lost before. He had experienced tragedy in his life, but nothing that cut this deeply. He felt as if he had fallen into an abyss, continuing to fall farther and farther into despair, helpless against the grief that slowly enveloped him.

"Damn you, Wilson," he managed to choke out, pounding his fist on the desk. He let out a small sob.

At that moment, he heard a key in the lock followed by the door slowly opening. Someone entered the office.

"Get out!" he yelled angrily keeping his forehead on his hands, expecting whoever was encroaching on his sorrow to turn and leave. From his peripheral vision he could see light streaming in from the hallway and a figure standing in the doorway.

"I told you to get out of here!" he spat out bitterly, clenching his hands into fists.

The shadowy figure moved closer. "Greg…."

House's head snapped up. He squinted from the bright light of the hallway as he peered at the figure in the doorway. He saw a man….a man who sounded amazingly like Wilson. The figure closed the door and walked towards the desk, House watching his every move.

"Greg. It's me….."

As the man approached, the dim light of the desk lamp slowly revealed his features.

"Oh god!" House gasped, blinking several times as he felt his heart threaten to pound its way out of his chest. He continued to stare at the man, incredulous, stunned…unable to speak or move.

It was James Wilson.

"I wasn't in the car," Wilson said quietly, as he noted House's moist, blood shot eyes.

The older doctor scrunched up his face. I wasn't in the car. It took him a few moments to realize what the words meant.

"Jimmy…." he whispered.

The other man sighed. "I was carjacked. The guy knocked me out. The police naturally assumed I was driving…."

House slowly stood but felt himself beginning to sway again and fell back into his chair. Wilson resisted reaching out to assist him. The older doctor continued to stare at his friend, afraid to take his eyes off him for fear he would vanish. Just minutes earlier he had suffered the worst blow he could ever have imagined. And now, suddenly, he had his world back in the form of one Dr. James Wilson, who stood before him disheveled and bruised with the same compassionate brown eyes, that familiar squint. His best friend. He had another chance.

House leaned over the desk placing his weight on his hands as he slowly stood. Steadying himself, he limped towards the young doctor without use of his cane.

"You look like hell," he said, examining his best friend.

"Thanks. I had a bad night."

House managed a small smile as he glanced down towards the floor. "Tell me about it. Mine wasn't exactly a day at the beach." He looked up at Wilson, his expression now one of profound relief.

Both men stood quietly, their eyes locked. After a moment, House reached out and grabbed Wilson's shirt, gently pulling the young doctor towards him. He wrapped his arms around his friend's back and held him tightly against his chest. Wilson allowed himself to sink into the embrace, reaching his arms around House's back and burying his head between his shoulder and neck. He closed his eyes as he felt himself being drawn in even closer, immersing himself in the mutual exchange of caring and concern. After several minutes of silence, James lifted his head and looked into his friend's eyes.

"You okay?"

House smiled. "Nothing a few Vicodin won't fix."

"Don't take them on my account."

"Since when is this about you?" House's face grew serious as he looked into his friend's dark eyes. "You do this to me again and I'll kill you myself."