As he pulled into a narrow parking space, his classy automobile looking very out of place between two run down old ruct buckets that may have once been cars, Dr. James Wilson sighed. Over the past few weeks, what with the daily slew of cancer patients, moving, and trying to work out his divorce from his third wife, the young doctor had had little time to cook, think, or relax at all. Tonight was the perfect night for chinese food. He had called in his order before he had left the hospital for the night, a few orders of pork fried rice, some General Tsao's Chicken, lo mein, beef and broccoli, and of course a large order of egg rolls. House had always said that was no point in eating chinese if you didn't have at least three egg rolls with the meal.

The passing thought of House caused Wilson to pause slightly as he stepped out of his car. He realized that without meaning to he had accidently put in the order he generally shared with House. He didn't even like that horrible chikcen crap. He had had no intention of joining House for a meal that night, he hadn't eaten with the man outside of the hospital in nearly three weeks. Not since he had moved into an apartment of his own. He talked to House... at work. But there were so many things going on, he'd sort of left House on the back burner.

Wilson stood next to his car, his hand propped up on the still open door. He pondered the odd trick his subconcious had played on him. He let out a small laugh, just a whisper really, and shook his head. "Maybe it's a sign," he muttered under his breath.

With a fluid movement, Wilson slammed the door shut, fished around in his pocket a bit, and locced the door after finding the keys. With a casual strut, he made his way to the front door, pushed it open lightly, and welcomed the familiar tinkling of the door chime that announced his arrival.

Wilson (who had been to this resteraunt many times, with House, on dates with Julie when they had first met, countless other women, and just to pick up food, like this very occasion) was greeted warmly by the host, who also happened to be the owner. He was a pleasant man and Wilson always made it a point to talk to the man for a few moments. He had a feeling that the aging chinese man felt a connection to his regular costomers, like they were almost family. It was nice, but a bit sad at the same time. But it was routine. It was normal. At this point, it felt to Wilson as though any missed piece of the rhythm would be felt, like a hole in his chest.

After paying and a promise to come back soon, Wilson took his food and returned to his car. Once he was seated with the motor running, he paused. He was going home. Well, if you could call it that. After three weeks of moving things, trying to get his stuff from Julie, and failed attempts at furniture shopping, the apartment was still mainly an empty space. Wilson sighed, resigned, and backed the car out of the space and drove it off into the night.

After a while, Wilson pulled his car into a spot by the curb, cut the engine, and climbed out of the car, food in tow. Once he had reached the door, Wilson found the right key, and entered the apartment quietly. He placed his bag down near the door and smiled as he looked up to find a figure leaning heavily on a cane in front of him. "I brought Chinese... thought you might be hungry."

House looked at him, an eyebrow raised in a questioning manner, but a small smile across his lips. Wilson smiled and shook his head. "I suppose I just got into the habit."