One
The beautiful young woman stretched, tossing her carefully permed platinum blonde hair out of her eyes. She looked at Wilson beside her, his strong, lean body nestled against hers.
The pitcher of martinis beside the bed had long since been emptied, and the white satin sheets were rumpled.
"Can we do that ... again?" she asked, her low voice a throaty purr.
James smiled. It was the patented smile, practiced and honed over many a date, affair, and seduction. Women loved it. He'd tried it on House a few times, but it didn't seem to have the same effect.
"What do you think?" he asked.
The door burst open and a distraught man stepped into the bedroom.
"Lily!" he cried. "Jim!"
The platinum blonde sat straight up, shock evident on her ice-princess features.
"Rex!"
"Rex?" James squeaked. "What are you doing here?"
Pulling a large handgun from his trenchcoat pocket, the intruder stepped forward.
"You cheating bastard!" he shouted. Leveling the gun, he shot Wilson four times in the chest, killing him instantly.
Blood splattered everywhere as Lily reflected on how this was really going to ruin her day.
Two
It was an icy January morning in New Jersey, and the roads into work had been virtually impassable. It had taken Wilson three hours to make what was normally a one-hour trek. He fiddled with his car radio and thought about the previous evening.
House had been an ass, as usual. His incessant probing of James's personal life had finally become too much, and the oncologist had ended up sulking on the couch as House had flipped through cable channels for an hour, looking for free porn. They'd woken to eerily light skies and an ice storm in full progress.
The sanding crews, overworked and underpaid, had missed a crucial intersection one block from the hospital.
Wilson didn't know this until the city bus, unable to stop at the red light, kept going and plowed into the driver's side of his Volvo. A crucial side-curtain airbag failed to deploy; it had been installed by a Swedish assembly-line worker who'd been too hungover at the factory that morning to tighten the last switch.
The resulting head and chest trauma was much more than enough to cause immediate death.
Three
The conference had been worth it, James thought. His presentation had gone well, and he'd been intrigued enough to consider several new oncology procedures for PPTH. There'd even been a small workshop on diagnostics, impromptu and unscheduled on the original agenda, and he had found himself wishing House were there. Best of all, though, Dr. Susan Glasswell from the University of Chicago had proven to be a fascinating and ... warm ... dinner companion.
He was on his way to the last lecture of the day, "Acute and Chronic Leukemias: Novel Targeted Therapeutic Strategies", when he felt the sudden twinge in his chest.
Dismissing it as indigestion, he walked on into the lecture hall. Pausing for a cup of coffee, the twinge struck again, more insistent this time. He frowned. The twinge became a real pain, radiating down his left arm and up into his jaw.
Wilson turned, realizing what it was at last, and raised his hand for help.
It was already too late. He grunted and doubled over as an elephant sat down hard on his chest.
He was dead within minutes, the overwhelming heart attack crushing him down so far he'd never get up.
Four
He didn't regret agreeing to come to the Jersey Shore with his brother's family. The twin boys, Zach and Henry, were celebrating their seventh birthday, and even though sand had gotten in the hot dogs and cake, it had been fun so far.
What he regretted was swimming out the distance he had and then developing a disabling charleyhorse in his right leg. The current was sweeping him further and further out and there was nothing he could do about it.
Right leg ... just like House. Isn't it ironic? And then he was sad that his last coherent thought would be from an Alanis Morrisette song that he didn't even like.
The ocean pulled him down like a jealous lover and wouldn't let go.
Five
Wilson took a deep breath. The cold air was refreshing, the snow powdery, and the week of skiing at Mont-Sainte-Anne had been a great break from the hospital. He'd been coming here every couple of years, having first discovered the joys of Quebec winter sports when he was in medical school at McGill University. He often wished House would come with him one year, but the older man had always begged off, saying the cold would be bad for his leg.
James had been surprised on this trip by the appearance of an old friend -- a college roommate from days gone by. The two men had recognized each other while waiting for the ski lift, and had laughed at the coincidence. Michael Palazetti was now a CPA in Atlanta; divorced, he had three daughters, whose pictures he proudly showed to James. They'd skiied together every day since.
Now it was the last day of vacation for them both, and Michael had wanted to try something different.
They were off the trail; something Wilson knew was inherently dangerous, but Mike had urged him on, laughing. He had to admit it was an entirely different experience, weaving through the ungroomed snow, tree branches whipping by his head.
He turned his head for just a moment, to grin at Michael; he looked back too late to see the fir tree suddenly looming.
James tried to dodge. The tree didn't.
Six
No one knew how the homeless guy had managed to smuggle the knife into the clinic, how he had gotten it past security as he hunted for drugs.
It wasn't even a pocketknife, easily concealed -- no, it was a 9-inch filleting blade, flexible and razor-sharp, and at this very moment it was stuck between James's third and fourth ribs on the left side.
Wilson had noticed the guy rifling through an empty exam room; first he'd yelled at him to stop, then roughly grabbed him by the shoulder. The man had turned, swinging something far too quickly for James to react.
House, choosing that very moment to show up for his own clinic duty, had been greeted by the sight of nurses, doctors, patients, and security guards all rushing back and forth. Off to one side, guards and street cops had a scruffy-looking guy down on the floor and were attempting to restrain him long enough to get the handcuffs on.
His lab coat a small white island in the sea of chaos, Wilson sat on the floor nearby, bent over, his arms tightly wrapped around his body. House lowered himself carefully to a half-crouch by his friend.
Wilson was pale and shaky; his breathing slow and shallow, as if trying not to jar anything loose inside. House whistled when he saw the knife hilt protruding from James's side.
"Damn, Jimmy ... you had to piss off the one bum around who shoplifts from Bass Pro, didn't you?"
James finally looked at him.
"I'm dying," he said. He sounded very surprised.
"Don't be such a girl," House advised, "You're not dying. Not while I'm here."
And of course, House was right. In the end, that made all the difference.
fin