Well, a belated hello... I hope you enjoy my first attempt at HouseWilson, but it's turning a little angsty through no fault of my own. House should write a Gospel, you know? He's arrogant enough to pull it off.

I don't usually do author's notes, but, in order to keep from interrupting the flow of the story when it comes up, I want you to know that Pachelbel's Canon in D is my favorite classical song. I'm learning it on the piano. The arpeggio I talk about (again, it comes up later) is the first half of the first measure of the treble staff: D, F sharp, A, D in eighth notes and 2/4 time.

That kid, the horny gay one, had gone home with a few placebo sleeping pills to reassure his mother and a personal recommendation to find a new meeting place from me. His poor weak-of-heart mum didn't need to hear her son getting it on upstairs.

Still, his words stuck with me. 'A friend sneaks over.' He does that sort of thing with a friend? That's a waste of a perfectly serviceable friendship. What'll happen when they break up? No one ever stays friends with their ex. Honestly. Lose a buddy for a few touches…

Speak of the devil, where the hell is my goddamn Wilson? He should be here, staring at me in disapproval and distaste as I break patient confidentiality to tell him about it. He's always got a problem with something. He would probably think poorly of the kid just because of the gay thing. As far as I can tell, he's all for anything with a skirt, but give him a man and he'll be the perfect doctor, touch nothing he shouldn't, look at nothing in curiosity…

Not that I ever do.

Pisshaw, like, ohmigod, get your mind out of the gutter, seriously! Heheh, my mind has fun high school girl ways of changing the subject. It amuses me, so get used to it. What was I talking about? Oh, I remember, not Wilson and not gay sex. Perfect.

I opened a door of the clinic and said "Chase, search through some records," before I looked up from my coffee. Chase was talking to an old man that had his shirt off and was showing a lot of yellowy flab. I shuddered and muttered, "Never mind." Glancing back, I added, "Get this alcoholic in rehab, that jaundice is freaking me out."

Just so that you fully understand and can therefore worship me more wholeheartedly, I knew that one because jaundice is the outward sign of a failing liver. The skin turns yellow because bilirubin (that's this neat pigment made when the body metabolizes hemoglobin) builds up in the skin. Any disease affecting the liver can cause jaundice, but only one lead to a swollen, cirrhosis-covered liver. That guy's stomach looked pretty tender, judging by the way he winced when Chase prodded right where the liver should be.

That, and I'm just that cool.

I tried Foreman next, but he was talking to this really cute new resident doctor and I wouldn't want to take him fr- "I need a work phone number for one Julia Wilson. Stat." He stared at me, disbelief in his eyes. I glanced around in the silence, as innocent as I remember how to be from my earnest studies. "Sorry, did I stutter?"

"Excuse me," the girl hurried off, because everyone has heard of crazy House that'll tell you what you had for breakfast. She'd had pancakes, by the way - some powdered sugar and syrup clung to the edge of her collar.

I'm hungry. Damnit, Wilson, get back here and buy me lunch!

Foreman watched the girl go with a sigh. "Are you stalking Dr. Wilson's wife now?"

In a totally level tone, I rattled off, "I am offended that you would think I could do that."

"Would asking you to be civil with her be just a little too far-fetched?" he asked dryly.

I laughed and took a few steps toward the elevator, not dignifying that with an answer.

Wilson's ex didn't justify me with one, either. On the phone, I mean. Ha, ha - a little turn around for ickle Greggy. Now who's caught playing phone tag? Anyway, her secretary said that she wasn't in, so either I'm on the screening list or both Jimmy and Julia are in court on the same day at the same time.

In my office, I leaned back in my chair and put my feet up, twirling my cane in my right hand, eyes closed. I had a headache, a bad one, so I popped a pill and swallowed it dry. A painkiller kills pain in the head and leg simultaneously, but it was more the habit of the thing. I'm a doctor, it's allowed - I knew the risks of overdose, and that was a ways away.

Huh. I suspected a divorce, but I actually did hear that part so maybe it was best not to say that kind of thing aloud in case Jimmy just so happened to come back and hear.

I lifted my head and opened one eye to check the doorway for looming oncologists. It was empty.

I sank back into my chair in my dark office and tried to fall asleep. This was really messing me up, more than the withdrawals of all my vices put together. It was making me, the almighty, omniscient Gregory House, hope and wish and pray that one James Wilson would walk through my office door.

I played piano, because my home was a very quiet place when my thoughts were being drawn to something troubling. If I had a case, then I walked the path of the mind with blessings, but if not, I would rather get drunk and pop some prescriptions. Anyway, I played piano.

I was addicted to alcohol, to painkillers, to the disbelief in other people's eyes…to so many things.

When did I become addicted to Mr. Morals, too? His stupid, persistent caring and listening to anything I say even though I make it obvious that I could care less for him, I mean. I can see his face, disapproving but helpless to stop me. The only one that won't leave when I'm a total ass. No, but he did leave, didn't he? To go to court over his failed marriage that wasn't totally his fault in the first place.

I plinked at the keys of the piano, thinking. Somehow, a song I had learned when I was fifteen came through my fingers and Pachelbel's Canon in D filled the room with a solemn sort of regret. Wilson... James. I would have to track him down quickly, or else I might lose all my innate awesomeness in favor of a depressed little sack of cranky.

My fingers stumbled and I hit the wrong note, just now noticing that I didn't really know this song. I was still only in the opening arpeggios, how hard could it be? I backtracked a measure, the sheet music from days gone by showing in my mind. In eighth-notes: D (I hit the note as I thought it, and it sounded right); F… sharp, and that was right, too; B - no. That was sour.

Wilson wasn't there. Wilson wasn't there, and I was frustrated beyond words. I was frustrated with the fact that, of the first time in almost ten years, I hadn't been able to get a rise out of literally the easiest guy to mess with. But I was even more frustrated by my reaction - I was like a lovesick girl, waiting for her boyfriend over summer break. I wasn't being as untouchable, as indefatigable, as I wanted to be.

Being reachable meant being breakable. I've broken too many times for this.

I slammed my hands down on the smooth keys, ripping a tortured scream from my poor, defenseless, loyal piano.

The note I was looking for was A. I remembered now. But I didn't care, because Wilson wasn't there.

Tell me if there is a typo - they horrify me, and I want to fix them as much as is possible. I think that a mistake in typing or writing makes the authoress seem a little dim, and I would hate to fall in my readers' eyes. Review?