A/N: This is random, short, and pointless. It sucks.I wrote it because I'm depressed and listening to My Chemical Romance, and because the idea finally struck me and it's fascinating. Maybe I'll write something new following this same idea (as if I don't already have enough fics that need to be finished and shitload of nonexistant original fiction).
No slash intended.
Reversal
When he smashed the window next to the apartment door and finally unlocked the damn thing, he expected an onslaught of bitching about privacy and respect and having to pay the landlord for damages. He hadn't heard a word in days, had finally lost his patience and succumbed to the horrific ideas his mind had formulated at such a long and mysterious absence.
"Wilson!" he shouted angrily. "Where the hell are you? Why haven't you been answering my phone calls?"
He limped through the half-empty living room, maneuvering around unpacked boxes, and made his way to the kitchen. He moved on to the dining room and the laundry room next, but the silence didn't yield. None of the lights were on, but it wasn't too dark, with the afternoon sunshine invading the windows.
"I know you're here, you idiot! Your car is parked outside," House shouted.
He faced the flight of stairs with a grimace. Fuck.
"I'm going to kick you ass for this! You know – that stairs – are a bitch."
He pulled himself up, one step at a time, sweat forming on his brow at the midpoint. He grunted and cursed and stopped twice, panting. He yelled Wilson's name again, once he reached the second floor. The guest bathroom was forebodingly white, the tiles and mirror and plastic shower curtain all giving him a bad feeling.
He hobbled down the dark hall until he reached the bedroom. The door creaked as he stood against it.
"Why are you being so damn aggravating?" he said, pushing the door open at last, his chest swelling with triumph.
It died suddenly. His blue eyes shone despite their distance from the window. They recognized everything his brain did not register: the gentle hands, the ironed slacks, the rolled up sleeves, the floppy hair, the boyish face.
The only thing unrecognizable was the rope and the distance between the loafers and the carpet.