Thanks so much for the reviews! Now, not to leave everyone hanging…

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Wilson's mind was still reeling from the bike ride into work, the unfamiliarity feel of leather beneath his hands and the sweet, velvety smell of gasoline glimmering amid his senses. The wind whistled through the helmet House had tossed him as he climbed on the motorcycle.

The land had been moving so fast beside them. Picking up speed, green landscape blended into the drab gray of concrete and asphalt, whirling and spinning into a violent illusion of uniformity, of completeness, of smooth reason.

Despite the speed, despite the sensory rush, Wilson's nerves were shot, frayed into a million strands. Electrical panic rippled through him as time inevitably whittled down. The baseball game seemed years in the past; House's apartment set like an empty shell he'd crawled out of and left to drift back to watery depths.

Secrets hummed in his ears.

At the hospital, Wilson had listened obediently during the white board brainstorm. He didn't hear a word of what was said. He had followed Cameron, Chase, and Foreman into the young woman's room for medical observation. He couldn't remember a piece of what he saw.

Maybe the patient was sick; maybe she was delusional. Maybe she was important.

Of course she was. Importance isn't a matter of opinion; it's a matter of perception.

But none of it mattered, Wilson realized. Foggy accusations of secrets clung to his mind like uneven wallpaper, unavoidable and obvious, annoying and yet final.

Unless he tore down the walls, the wallpaper would stay. And he had no intention of lowering his guard for even the briefest of moments. He'd done enough of that in the past two weeks.

Returning from the patient's room, he drifted passed Cuddy's office, meeting her eyes significantly through the blinds. She moved as if she wanted to say something and then thought better of it. A quiet nod sufficed.

They'd spoken already. Yesterday, before he'd gone back to his apartment, before he'd met up with House to catch the baseball game.

That conversation had been watered-down, of course, cloaked with a thin gossamer lie that Wilson hated but was desperate enough to use. The real reason for his decision was too complicated. Even he couldn't quite figure it out.

And some things just weren't meant to be figured out. It was not a lapse in personal character; it was not a flaw in commitment or resolve or respect. A person was not necessarily tired or stupid or weak when they failed to justify a blatant reason.

It just was. It was safer not to complicate simplicity.

Reaching the elevator, Wilson hoped no one had stopped in his office yet, before he had had a chance to explain. As the button blinked its off-yellow light and the doors whooshed opened, Cameron appeared on the other side. Her hair was swept back from her face, the faintest hint of a curl unraveling her dark hair around her shoulders.

She looked pale, skin blank with a stark vacancy of emotion.

She stared at him.

She'd been to his office. Or talked to Cuddy. Maybe both.

Wilson stepped inside the elevator dutifully. After all, it had opened. He couldn't very well just walk away and act as if he hadn't seen her waiting, expecting something of an adequate explanation. Her glossed eyes swam like watercolors waiting to be poured out on something, to give color and life and purpose to an image.

She lives vicariously through everyone, Wilson thought to himself, standing beside her as he pressed an elevator button for his level. She's composed of so many emotions, she can't even decide which one to choose when she's searching for her own, innate reaction.

Cameron touched his sleeve gently. It was such a slight gesture Wilson could ignore it and convince himself he never felt it at all.

"Does he know?" she asked.

The elevator clicked, shuddered, stopped.

The doors parted. Wilson stepped between the gap, turning for a second to watch as they shut once more. And Cameron was lost inside again, taken away as if caught in the palm of some distant, retracting hand.

No. He doesn't know. And it's easier this way.

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He'd started this yesterday, which was why he'd been late getting to House's for the game. He'd finish it now.

The books went on the bottom. They were heaviest, the bulkiest, and gave some stability to the piles. Wilson figured he had most memorized—he'd read through them so many times. He had one from his first year of medical school, still dog-eared and highlighted with fading yellow, his handwriting adorning the white space of columns with personal notes. Writing in a different style appeared alongside of it, too. House's handwriting, from when he'd taught the class. Wilson closed the book, shutting his mind to the memory.

On top of the books, carefully, were the medical awards and diplomas in frames, stuck between glass like interesting specimens to be peered at, poked and prodded, but never quite taken seriously. Sure. Nice to look at. And they served some purpose, of course. But in the end, they remained behind the cold sheet of glass, numb and frozen.

Between those went the trophies. Some brass, other just artificially heavy plastic coated in a faux gold material so it caught the sunlight, encouraging onlookers to appreciate the gleam. He didn't remember what the majority were for, and he didn't particularly bother to read them now, given the circumstances.

Pens, staplers, random files, an empty picture frame he'd yet to fill with an image of someone important to him. These lay strewn atop the previous piles of his work possessions.

He closed the boxes and gave one look around the hollow, empty office.

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"Where the hell is Wilson?"

Cuddy literally jumped, startled, as House barged into her office. She couldn't remember seeing him this worked up, even when he went off the Vicodin, though that really didn't count—at least he'd been mellow that time, the detoxing sapping his energy. But now, she could sense something forcefully ripping at his seams, taut and on the verge of violently snapping.

"He's—he's not here," Cuddy stammered. She stared, amazed, at House. "It's already two."

"And he works until five."

The words hung strangely in the air. House half-wondered if he'd said something wrong by the puzzled, strained look on Cuddy's face. Words seemed to be stalling as they worked their way to her mouth, getting jammed in the traffic of her confusion.

"He—" Cuddy left the sentence break, as if she expected House to fill in the blanks. He raised his eyebrows and slanted his stature forward, as if that might derive an explanation more quickly.

She stared helplessly as she slowly realized House didn't know. Why Wilson had never told him, she couldn't imagine.

"Dr. Wilson resigned yesterday."