"I'm going to guess that I don't want to know where these came from." Wilson looks up from one of the paper bags House has stashed on the floor behind his desk. House leans forward, his elbows on his knees.
"Sure you do," House says and pulls a long, thin package out of one of the bags. "My guy supplies the best bottle rockets in the mid-Atlantic. But you have to earn the right for that kind of information. That's not something you just willingly give up to anyone on the street."
Wilson takes the box from House. It has four of the rockets: a collection of explosives and colored powder packed into a cylinder on one end, the fuse on the other. "They're also highly illegal in New Jersey," he says.
"Not if you have a permit."
Wilson puts the box back into the bag and stands up, leaning on a corner of House's desk. "You got your hands on a permit?"
House shakes his head. "Of course not."
"Then how ..."
"It's all part of the great fireworks game. You cross a state line, swear that you won't use them in whatever state you're currently in, claim that you've got a permit to use them in whatever state you're going to, and everybody's happy."
"Except the fire department."
"One time." House holds up his index finger . "Once. And it's only because Stacy distracted me."
"Distraction," Wilson says. "Is that what you're calling it now?" He leans down and roots through the bags again. In addition to the bottle rockets there are roman candles, firecrackers, fountains and a collection of boxes proclaiming everything from "smoke and punk" to "crackle and strobe."
"Don't you think you went a little ... overboard?" Wilson looks over at House, who is now leaning back in his chair.
"Four day weekend, Jimmy. No cases and Cuddy's out of town," House says. "Even your cancer kids wouldn't dare to get sick this weekend. It's time we celebrated our independence."
"Somehow I doubt the Founding Fathers expected us to mark the holiday by blowing up stuff."
"Why not? They did."
Wilson's pager goes off before he can respond. He checks the number, then steps away from the desk and the fireworks.
"Looks like all of my patients didn't get the message," he says. "I've got to go."
"Just be ready on Saturday," House calls out as Wilson walks out. "We'll even launch a few in honor of your alma mater on July First."
The first night, he makes Wilson drive them both out to one of the county parks on the edge of town. All of the picnickers have gone home. The gazebo is empty. The only other people in the park are a small group of teen-agers gathered around one table, smoking and sharing a case of beer.
"Perfect," House says, and directs Wilson over to the far end of the parking lot. "If anyone calls the cops, who are they going to suspect, the Wild Bunch over there or a cripple and an upstanding member of society driving a Volvo?"
Wilson shakes his head, but follows House's instructions.
The sky hasn't lost all of its light yet. It's still a dark gray, with the moon and first stars showing as House sorts through the fireworks in one of the bags. He picks out one of the bottle rockets and sets it up at the edge of the grass.
He lights the fuse and then backs away quickly. Wilson can see the smile on House's face grow slightly as it burns down, then it takes off and they both watch it shoot into the air. The explosion is louder than Wilson expected and he jumps at the sound as it bursts into a mixture of green and red. Wilson hears a few of the kids clap as the embers fade.
House turns to him, his smile now wider. "Your turn," he says.
The second night, House turns up at Wilson's new apartment just before dusk.
"You're actually serious," Wilson says as House zips open his backpack to show off the collection of fireworks jammed into it. "You planning on doing this every night until you run out of explosives?"
"Of course not." House zips the pack shut again. "I was thinking of saving the firecrackers to light outside Cuddy's bedroom window late one night when the mood strikes me."
Wilson grabs his keys and his wallet and follows House out the door. "I don't know if I'm more concerned that you'd actually do that, or worried that I might be out of town when it happens and I'll miss all the fun," he says.
House leads the way out the door and into the parking lot. His bike is parked next to Wilson's Volvo. Wilson is about to unlock the door when he notices that House keeps going, headed toward the middle of the lot.
"Wait," Wilson says. "Where are you going?"
House shrugs the pack off his shoulder and pulls out a tube-shaped fountain firework. "It's big, it's empty -- and it's asphalt, so no danger of grass fires."
"It's also surrounded by new neighbors -- people I'd rather not piss off right away," Wilson says.
"And from the looks of the place, half of them are out of town, and I'd say the other half don't care." House puts the fountain on the asphalt and takes a lighter out of his pocket. "Now stop worrying and give me some room."
Wilson thought House would skip the next night. He'd ended up with a new case -- an attorney from Connecticut who had come to Princeton to visit family and ended up in the ER when his temperature hit 105 degrees.
When Wilson had stopped by the diagnostics conference room that afternoon during a brief stop at PPTH to check on patients, the whiteboard was covered with symptoms: night sweats, rash, joint soreness, inflammation and weight loss in addition to the fever.
"We've got it narrowed down to four possibilities -- five if I give in and let Foreman put lupus back on the table," House said.
Wilson looked over the symptoms again. "Why not lupus?"
"Moving too fast," House poured some coffee into his mug, then leaned back on the table, staring at the whiteboard. "And it's never lupus."
"Law of averages says it will be one of these days," Wilson noted.
House shook his head slightly. "Not today," he mumbled. "Doesn't feel right."
"So you're just going on your gut instincts now?"
House looked over at him. "If it's my gut instinct, why not? Foreman's, on the other hand ..."
"You know, one of these days, Foreman's going to be right, and you're going to wrong," Wilson said.
"Maybe," House said. "But not today."
It's closing in on midnight when Wilson's phone rings.
"I need a break," House says. "Come on by."
"House, I was sleeping."
"No you weren't." Wilson can hear a faint thumping in the background and tries to figure out which ball House is throwing, and whether he's tossing it against the wall or the floor. "You've been indulging in that John Ford box set. You up to 'Fort Apache' yet?"
Wilson pauses the DVD. "You want food?"
"Just matches," House says. "I'll meet you out front in twenty minutes."
House says he's got thirty minutes to kill and tells Wilson to head to a roadside park off of Canal.
"You ruled out lupus yet?"
"No, but we did manage to add kidney abscess as a possibility," House says. "I'm waiting for the MRI."
Wilson pulls into the park less than five minutes after leaving the hospital. It takes House a little longer to get out of the passenger seat than usual. As he walks around the back of the car Wilson can see he's leaning harder on his cane and moving a little slower than just a few hours earlier. Wilson knows without asking that he'll be the one in charge of lighting the fireworks tonight.
House puts the bag on the trunk and pulls out a box. "Something new," he says. "The guy said it's got a long burn."
"Is that a good thing?" Wilson angles the box toward the street light as he studies the fine print at the bottom.
"What are you doing?"
"Reading the instructions."
"Why?"
Wilson looks up at him. "Because I'd rather avoid seeing a headline in tomorrow's paper reading: 'Local doctor loses fingers in fireworks accident,'" he says.
House takes the box out of Wilson's hands and opens it. He takes out the cone-shaped explosive and gives it to Wilson. "Here are all the instructions you need: Light fuse, run away."
It's nearly noon before House comes up with chronic meningococcemia, a rare infection connected to exposure to the same bug that causes meningitis. It's after 2 p.m. by the time a new blood test confirms it, and after 6 p.m. before they know the guy is responding to the combination of IV antibiotics.
The patient ...
"Herman," House says. "Harry," Cameron corrects.
"...should consider himself lucky he decided to come home to see Mommy and Daddy," House says. "If Mommy weren't such a worrywart and forced him to come to the hospital, he'd probably be dead."
There were only 2,600 cases in the U.S. last year, House points out, and most of those people died within hours.
"And if he's exceptionally lucky," House adds; "He'll manage to not have any permanent heart damage either."
Cameron has her bag slung over her shoulder as she walks into House's office and hands him a file. "Latest stats from Harry. Temp's down another degree and his O2 sats have improved," she says. "I'm heading home, unless there's anything else you need."
House shakes his head.
"OK," she says. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Cameron," Wilson says. He waits as House scans the papers. It was raining earlier, but the skies have cleared in time for late holiday cookouts. Wilson has a couple of sirloins stashed in an ice chest in his car, along with a couple of Idaho potatoes and corn on the cob. House hadn't asked for a ride when he'd called, but accepted when Wilson asked if he wanted one.
Now that the case is solved, House looks like he's about to crash. He puts the file down and rubs his eyes to try and clear them before he picks it up again. He reaches for his coffee cup, but Wilson takes it first and moves it to his side of the desk.
"How about we head back to your place," Wilson says. "You can take a nap while I cook."
House sighs and rolls his eyes, but doesn't argue.
Once they're home, House just waves toward his kitchen and heads toward the bathroom. Wilson can hear the shower start up a few minutes later as he scrubs the potatoes and wraps them in foil.
Fifteen minutes later, he's husking the corn when he hears the TV turn on. House is asleep on the couch by the time Wilson walks into the living room.
House manages to rouse himself after about 20 minutes, walking into the kitchen and grabbing a can of Coke from a refrigerator shelf. "Need anything?"
Wilson shakes his head and finishes seasoning the sirloins. He puts both onto the grill pan he brought from home. They sizzle as they hit the hot metal. Wilson can hear the rattle of House's pill bottle as he turns on the water and washes his hands.
"We should be ready in about 15 minutes," he says and House nods. He still looks tired and Wilson notices he's using the cane, even in the tight confines of the kitchen.
"I was thinking I'd make an early night of it tonight," Wilson says. "I've got an early ...
"Early, sure," House says. "As soon as we finish up the fireworks."
"Haven't you had enough?"
House shudders slightly. "Had enough? One time a year, Wilson, we have an excuse to make all the noise we want, and no one will bitch. One time a year in which blowing things up isn't just fun -- it's downright patriotic. Light stuff on fire and cheer as the sparks fly any other day of the year, and they'll be calling you a pyromaniac. Do it today and they'll call you a solid American citizen."
The sun is beginning to sink by the time they finish eating, and the sky shifts through hues of gray while Wilson cleans up. House is sitting outside on the front step with a bag between his feet by the time Wilson is done.
Up and down the street, Wilson can hear the short, sharp explosions of firecrackers. A couple of doors down some kids are running with sprarklers, waving them in circles as the sparks fly. Wilson sits on the concrete next to House, and notices that House looks more relaxed than he has in days.
House pushes the bag over toward Wilson. Wilson looks inside and sees an assortment of the best fireworks they've shot off over the last three nights: bottle rockets, the whistling "Razzle Dazzle" and a tall fountain with gold and blue sprays that calls itself "View of the Mississippi."
Wilson looks up from the bag. House already has a grin on his face and he pulls a book of matches out of his pocket. "Let's have some fun," he says, and his smile widens. "You ready?"