Title: Lied (is German for Song)
Author: BlueBuickR
Rating: G-PG
Summary: Wilson makes a discover, then a few more.
Disclaimer: The characters (other than original) do not belong to me and therefore no money was/is to be made.
Notes: Second foray in House fic. This one's a little sad and melancholy, but it has what I feel is a hopeful ending. Feedback is always warmly welcomed.
Wilson made the discovery completely by accident. He'd been in House's apartment, picking up a few things for the man while he recovered in the hospital from the gun shot wounds. Without his friend to animate the space the place seemed cold and much too still for Wilson's liking, every dust coated surface seemingly muffled and oppressing. He'd have to get someone in to clean up, maybe take the curtains down and give them a good washing, before House was discharged. Until then he was forced to nearly skulk through the quiet rooms almost afraid to disturb the mausoleum like quality of his surroundings.
He didn't like the feeling and was hurrying in his task when it happened. Fumbling with clothes and toiletries, finally scrabbling along the bookcases looking for a few titles that might interest House while he was laid up, he yanked hard on a book and suddenly a small avalanche of tomes came tumbling out onto the floor and almost on his toes. Cursing softly, he bent to pick up the scattered volumes, starting with a particularly large coffee table book on Lully which had landed open, pages down on the floor. As he lifted it something slid out from between the pages, fluttering back down to the hardwood. Brow furrowed he set the book back on to the shelf and stooped to gather what appeared to be a handful of loose paper.
Straightening he gathered the pages together bringing them back into some sort of order noticing for the first time that they appeared to be sheet music. They were yellowing, the acid in the paper having done its slow burning work. Curiosity piqued as to why House would store old sheet music in a book Wilson flipped through the sheets, looking for a title of some sort. He found none. In fact, upon closer inspection, the notes scrawled along the printed lines seemed to be hand drawn, the ink smudged in some placed. Sucking in a breath through his teeth he riffled through the pages once again looking for any writing, a notation of some sort to confirm his mounting suspicions. Finding exactly what he was looking for in a small scribble in the margin of one of the pages he let the breath out in a long slow exhale, eyebrows rising. This was House's hand, no doubt about it. Which meant the music…
Shaking his head in disbelief, Wilson set the sheets aside for a moment as he quickly picked up the rest of the fallen books, slipping them back onto the bookcase. Grabbing the bag he packed for House he made his way toward the door, snagging the sheet music on his way out. He wasn't planning on telling House what he'd found, but he wasn't planning on stuffing the music back into its hiding place either. This little musical mystery was too good to pass up…besides he had a cousin who could play.
A quick phone call and he was on his way to a small middle school on a sunny Sunday afternoon, the drive and the light a refreshing contrast to House's apartment earlier in the day. He met Ariel at the doors to the school, giving her a quick peck on the cheek in hello as she ushered him inside and through the startlingly small and unimpressive corridors. His thoughts must have shown on his face because she turned to look at him over her shoulder and smirked.
"I know, they seemed so large, the centre of the universe, when we were in the school, but come back as an adult and it's all so diminished."
He smirked back. "Then what are you doing here on a Sunday?"
This time she laughed. "I'm setting up for class on Monday. Breaking all the instruments out of storage, getting everything arranged."
"I doubt very much the kids will notice if you have the plastic flute section next to the bongos instead of the castanets," he drawled.
"I'll notice," was her only reply as she stopped at a door, opening it and going in ahead of him.
It was a relatively large classroom, with a long line of windows letting in the sunlight, warming the room just past comfortable. A few rows of those horribly uncomfortable plastic chairs were set up, orange, yellow, and red grouped together, a small upright piano tucked in the far corner. As he took it all in Ari turned to him arms crossed.
"How are you doing, James?" she asked kindly, and he knew she was referring to the divorce.
He shrugged. "Alright." His mouth twisted slightly. "I'm used to it by now."
"And your friend?" she continued just as gently. "How is he?"
The twist grew. "Recovering. He'll be fine," he added, "and my mother talks too much. He'd hate this kind of attention."
Ariel scoffed, and Wilson looked down to make sure no spittle had landed on him. "Is this the same guy who knocked over that little old lady at your second wedding so he could make a grab for the bouquet?"
Wilson smiled. "One and the same. But that's a different kind of attention entirely."
He'd almost forgotten about that little stunt. They even managed to get picture of it; House stretching up mid leap, hands reaching, with the old woman in the foreground toppling forward toward the camera. His smile dimmed. That photo, along with all the others in the wedding album were most like burned or tossed in the trash alongside everything else which reminded his ex-wife of their relationship.
He was yanked out of his thoughts as Ariel snatched the sheet music, which he'd been holding loosely in his left hand, out of his grasp. "Let's see what you brought me," she said en lieu of an apology.
"I put the pages back in proper order, I think," he explained as she scanned through the papers. "Luckily they were numbered."
She made a vague sound of acknowledgement focus completely trained on the inked notes. After a moment more she looked up with a small furrow on her brow. "Where did you say you got this?"
"I didn't," he said. "I stumbled across it by accident, it uh, fell out of a second hand book I'd recently bought."
"That's strange," she mussed tapping the sheets onto her thigh. "It doesn't look like any piece I'm familiar with, but that doesn't mean anything. Probably just some arm chair composer trying his or her hand at things." She looked back down at the pages. "Rather successfully I might add."
"So can you play it for me?" he asked trying to hide his excitement. "I'm curious."
Her eyes snapped up to his eager face. "Oh, no. No, no. I'm sorry James. This is much too complicated for my talents. I won't even make the attempt; it'd be a butcher job no doubt."
He couldn't stop his shoulders from slumping. "Oh," was all he could get out.
She thumbed the pages biting her lip. "I might still be able to help though."
He perked up at this waiting for more.
"I know a professor; he was a teacher of mine. Great ear, fantastic hands," she stuck her tongue out at him when he leered just a little bit at that last one. "He could probably play this for us," she continued once her tongue was back in her mouth.
"Us?" he asked surprised.
"Yes us. You've got me curious now as well," she admitted. "This thing looks great on the page. I'd love to hear what it sounds like too."
"Why don't you give him a call then."
She flashed him a grin and passed the sheet music back as she fished out her cell phone. As she began to dial he wandered about the room a bit, peering out the windows, looking at the various posters of both classical composers and modern bands hanging on the walls. Stopping by the piano he idly ran his fingers over the worn wooden top, noting an almost greasy film of aged wax.
"That's great!" he heard Ariel say. "We'll send it over right way."
He turned back towards her just as she was flipping the phone shut, tucking it back into her pant pocket.
"He wants us to fax the sheet music over to him, give him a while to study it, play around a bit, before we go over for our little performance," she informed him.
"How long?" he asked, a little uneasy about making copies of House's music, let alone handing them over to someone else.
"Just a day, he told us to come over tomorrow evening, if that works for you?"
Wilson nodded absently. "Yeah, I worked yesterday so I have tomorrow off. What time do you they let you out?"
"Three thirty," she replied smiling. "Oh man this is going to be great! We're going to hear a possibly never before played piece of music!"
Wilson couldn't help it. "You are such a geek," he laughed fondly.
"It's called an aficionado."
"That's what I said, geek."
He was still teasing her about it as they made their way to the front office to fax the sheet music over, watching as the sheets were pulled into the machine then spat back out in a series of grinding rustles. The beep boop bop of the machine dialing added its own interpretation to the scrawled notes.
"Do you want me to pick you up here at a quarter to four?" Wilson asked as he gathered up the paper from the fax machine, tapping them gently on a nearby table, squaring them up.
"Yeah, that'd be good," Ariel replied. "We could go out for diner after, if you'd like."
"Sure," he agreed not really enthusiastic about the idea, but not knowing exactly why.
He spent the rest of the day and most of Monday mulling over his reasons for doing what he was doing, but again couldn't really come up with a satisfactory answer. He'd gone over every inch of the sheet music, examining the curve and sweep of each hand drawn note, reading every little glib and self deprecating notation; trying to understand the House of that place and time. He had no doubts the music had been composed before the infarction, when music had been fun and an adventure, not a distraction for pain or a mind both frantically trapped and artificially dulled. Without that wedding picture, this might be all that was left of the Greg House of before.
He arrived to pick Ariel up early, and wandered back to her classroom, only getting lost once on the way. He propped himself in the doorway quietly as he watched her led the class through the ending of what he thought was Frère Jaques, the beats pounded out on the greasy old piano. She finished with a flourish, the children trailing off in a jumble of sour notes. He clapped anyway.
A dozen pairs of wide eyes swiveled his way while Ariel stood from her seat and took a bow, motioning the kids to do the same. After a few of the braver ones got to their feet the masses following bowing awkwardly in his direction like a collection of Weebles.
"Such an ovation is the perfect cap for the day I think," Ariel informed her class. "I'll see you all on Wednesday."
Wilson moved to the side as the children made a beeline for the door, chairs scraping and instruments cast aside in a cacophony only slightly removed from their performance.
"You're early," Ari said as the last straggler disappeared out the door.
He sighed, moving to help her tidy up the classroom, putting instruments away. "I was anxious to get going."
"Okay," she said as she wiped her hands down the front of her thighs. "We'll just get my jacket in the lounge and we can go."
It took them a good forty minutes to drive to Professor Rothchild's home, a sprawling stone house on the edge of some woodland. Wilson could hear the booming 'short, short, short, long' notes of Beethoven's 5th echoing through the large oak door as he pressed the doorbell.
He turned sent a skewed smile Ari's way. "Another 'aficionado' I see."
"Look who's talking Mr. I'm going through all this trouble just to hear some music I stumbled across in some bargain bin book which might be total crap in end!" she huffed.
He opened his mouth to reply but was stopped when the door opened, a tall graying man in casual slacks and navy sweater standing in the entranceway.
"Ariel," he exclaimed shaking her hand. "It's been ages, I was so happy to get your call."
"Professor Rothchild," she greeted returning the warm handshake. "This is James Wilson, my cousin."
"Ah, our detective," he switched his grasp over to Wilson. "Pleasure to meet you Dr. Wilson. Although I must say you cost me a good night's sleep that's for sure."
"Really?" Wilson quirked an eyebrow as Rothchild ushered them inside, slipping his shoes off and setting them on the mat sitting off to the side.
"Couldn't put that music down," the professor confessed as he led them through the foyer, socked feet whispering over the stone floor. "Knowing you were coming I had to work it all out you see, satisfy myself I was interpreting the spirit of the piece correctly."
"I see," Wilson replied slowly.
"He so doesn't," Ariel jabbed.
"It was a joy none the less, let me assure you," Rothchild declared as they entered a spacious wood paneled room with an older, but obviously well cared for, baby grand piano. "I must admit I enjoyed myself immensely," the older man addressed Wilson. "It was just so nice to get my hands on something new, and a challenge to boot! Now don't get me wrong the classics are just that, classic, but they're old and played so many times they loose of bit of their magic. As for our modern day composers," he skewed his face, "I'm afraid I'm not a huge fan of contemporary classical. No depth!"
"But James' little discovery is different?" Ariel probed.
"Oh my yes," the professor said solemnly as he gestured for them to take a seat on the French provincial sofa, he himself moving toward the piano bench. "I can't decide whether I'd classify it as technically frenetic, or frenetically technical. Either way it's a marvelously complex and precisely crafted piece of music."
"That's a bit of a contradiction," Ariel said, crossing her legs and leaning back.
"Some things are," Wilson supplied.
"You'll see, or should I say hear what I mean in a moment," Rothchild assured them. "Would you like a drink first, before we get started?"
Ari snorted, nudging Wilson in the side. "I think we better get the show on the road professor, before James here dies of anticipation. He's been crawling out of his skin ever since he called me yesterday."
"Very well," he replied arranging the sheet music and settling himself in a proper pose. "The acoustics in this room are reasonable, so you should get a good effect." He poised his fingers over the keys. "Ready?"
"Fire away," Wilson breathed with muscles tight anticipation.
And fire away he did. The first notes out of the instrument were a banging clash and before the shock to the silence had worn away Rothchild was off in a dazzlingly quick and intricate set of notes.
This is House's mind, Wilson thought, as he sat back and closed his eyes to listen. It was House's hand who put those notes to paper, whose ideas were made sound. It was beautiful and glorious and heartbreaking and Wilson had to fight hard not to cry.
He lost himself completely in the music, in House's song, that the abrupt and rather violent end to a string of notes shocked him, his eyes and mouth popping open of their own accord.
"What's wrong?" he asked a little annoyed.
"That's it," Rothchild replied apologetically as he turned in his seat, hands wide.
"What?" Wilson asked incredulously.
"That's all that was composed," the pianist clarified. "Mid movement, just like that, it's like the composer just stopped mid thought." He took in Wilson's expression. "I'm sympathetic Dr. Wilson, I really am. I would have loved to have been able to play more, hear the ending to this wonderful piece of music, but it's unfinished."
"Oh, no, no it can't be," he almost moaned.
"Maybe there's more somewhere?" Ariel suggested.
"I highly doubt it," Rothchild sighed. "The notes end mid page, there was still plenty of room for more. Perhaps he died and never got to finish, which is a real shame I have to say."
"He did," Wilson said numbly, not even realizing he spoke out loud. "Died that is. Some years ago."
Ariel cast him a look he couldn't place but he ignored her, getting to his feet to shake Professor Rothchild's hand again.
"Thank you very much for your time and effort professor. It was a wonderful performance despite the loose ends."
"You're welcome. Like I said it was a treat for me as well." He indicated the faxed sheet music still sitting on the piano. "Would you mind terribly if I kept this?"
"Ummm," Wilson grimaced. "Actually I think I'd like to have any copies. I'm sorry. I know it sounds strange, but I feel responsible for this music and well I would like to see it to the end of its journey so to speak. No more loose ends."
"I understand," Rothchild patted him on the side of the arm, taking up the pages off the piano and handing them over.
"Thank you again professor," Ariel said as they made their way back to the entranceway and their shoes.
Wilson felt drained and achy when they finally settled back into the car. He pushed his head back into the headrest for a moment before opening his eyes to stare out the windshield.
"I'd think I'm going to pass on diner," he said.
"You said you found it in a second hand book," was Ariel's reply.
"What?"
"The music. You said it fell out of an old book. But if that's true how could you know the composer had died?"
"I was guessing, Ari," he snapped starting the car with a vicious turn of the key.
"Didn't sound like that to me."
"Just drop it okay, I don't want to talk about it."
They drove the rest of the way in silence and the goodbye when he let Ariel off at her home was curt and cold. He'd have to call and apologize later.
He made as stop off at House's place to replace the original sheet music, nestling it between the pages to keep Lully company, then headed home. Once there he made a beeline for his bedroom kneeling down to drag something out from under the bed. Opening the box he kept stored there he took the white leather bound album out, fingertips casually brushing over the gold 'wedding memories' emblazoned on the front. It didn't take him long to take all of his and Julie's wedding photos out…there hadn't been many - as if he'd known even then it wouldn't work out. Setting the pictures aside to be tossed out later he took the faxed copies of the sheet music he confiscated from Professor Rothchild and began to carefully place them under the protective plastic covers on each page. Once done he placed the album back into the box and slid the whole thing back under the bed, satisfied
The next day when he went to visit House in his room he casually asked him if he'd like to go to the symphony with him.
"Once you feel better of course," he added.
House eyed him skeptically. "You hate the symphony," he rasped. "Said it was boring."
"Apparently I lied," Wilson smiled wide.
End