Chapter 1 - James Wilson

"I have to leave."

And so he hurried past everyone, jacket in hand, while with the other one frantically searching his trouser pockets for the car key. He got through the glass door with his shoulder, almost tripped over his own feet, but hurried tirelessly on, his heart racing with panic in his chest.

The news had reached him only a few minutes earlier. The radio, which he occasionally turned on in his office, got them to him, rudely tore him out of his slow daily routine and sent him straight to hell. He still couldn't believe what he'd heard with his own ears.

An accident of catastrophic proportions had occurred on one of the main roads not far from the local hospital. If one could believe the statements of the carefree sounding radio announcer, there had been a crash in which not only several cars were involved, but which also injured numerous people, if not even left them on the verge of death. As tragic as this event was, it probably wouldn't have bothered him any further than what was appropriate for a doctor. If this accident hadn't happened on the road he would have to take on his way home.

And the road House must have taken on the way home.

His best friend had left the hospital just twenty minutes ago. Since his release from prison, he had given up riding his beloved motorcycle. Wilson remembered well that morning when House had told him about his first ride since. Now Wilson wished he hadn't gotten back to it yet. Even if he didn't know yet whether House had escaped the accident, he felt uncomfortable. A man on his motorcycle would have no chance against a car, let alone several.

For this reason, Wilson immediately swung himself into his car and drove off. His heart was pounding on his chest and dark scenarios were spreading in his head, which he hoped he wouldn't have to live through anytime soon. As a doctor - especially as one of his specialty - he was used to being confronted with death. Besides, his optimistic heart seldom allowed premonitions. But since the death of his beloved girlfriend Amber, Wilson had developed a slight tendency to paranoia, which now unfolded brutally in its full size.

Without paying attention to the surrounding speed limits, he sped through the dark streets of New Jersey until he saw the red ambulance lights glowing and flashing in the distance. While the blood rushed in his ears, he parked his car and got out.

The sight of stacked cars, the smoke of broken radiators, and the blood of injured people paralyzed Wilson's muscles for a moment while his mind sent out a silent wish. If there was a god, he should make sure that his friend did not get into this chaos but was safe and sound at home.

Gradually his muscles obeyed him again, slowly he put one foot in front of the other and approached the cruel scene. His brown, wide eyes scanned the surroundings for familiar things while he tried to block out the doctors running around. In the distance he saw one of the paramedics giving one of the victims a cardiac massage. Wilson swallowed the loo in his throat. To his relief, he quickly realized that the patient was not his friend. So he turned away, trying to gain a foothold in the hustle and bustle, while his thoughts continued to race inexorably. In this scramble to find a single person seemed to him an impossibility with every passing second, but with every heartbeat the hope grew in him that House would not be found at the scene of the accident because he was not there.

Wilson was about to pull his cell phone out of his pocket and dial his best friend's number - while wondering why he hadn't done that earlier - when he noticed a barely noticeable movement out of the corner of his eye that made him pause. Slowly he turned his head and looked at the body, which was lying at a moderate distance from the rest of the action. And then he realized that a call to House would no longer be necessary.

Because there he was. With his body lying on the floor, wrapped in frightening calm, Wilson could hardly tell whether he had only imagined the movement before and whether his friend was perhaps no longer alive. With heavy steps he came closer to the motionless figure, although all instincts in him screamed to run away and pretend he had never seen the horror. Even when he stood directly in front of him, his attentive gaze could no longer see any movement, not even a slight rise and fall of his chest. Wilson felt as if his heart stopped just then and he wanted to close his eyes to what now seemed inevitable. Still, he crouched down next to the friend, put two fingers to his neck in mute hope and strained to find a pulse. And indeed he found one, even though it did not cause him any joy, because his heartbeat was so weak that it was only a matter of time before it came to a complete standstill.

With his own heart racing in panic, he turned and yelled for help. He didn't want to leave his friend, who was fortunately still alive, to himself again and instead examined his wounded body in order to identify heavy bleeding and to be able to stop it. Irritated, however, Wilson noted that his friend had suffered a few scratches, but none of them were very deep or dangerous. While he was still wondering how such mild injuries were possible in a crash of this magnitude, he grabbed House under the arms to get him close to the paramedics.

But then he put his hands into sticky, still warm blood. Wilson was shocked to find that House was more injured than it seemed at first glance, because only now did he discover the large, bleeding wound on the back of his head. Wilson immediately froze in place, immediately gave up trying to move House and instead, in a touch of desperation, pressed his jacket to the injured part of his skull. The fabric soaked up with blood, turned dark very quickly, Wilson was already considering which other items of clothing he would have to repurpose in order to keep his friend from bleeding to death. But then he heard behind him the quick steps of two paramedics who came running towards him with sensible equipment and immediately took care of the patient. For a brief moment, Wilson allowed himself to be relieved while he gave the doctors space to do their work and just watched from the background.

While they were putting bandages on House's worst wounds, a young paramedic bombed Wilson with all sorts of questions he couldn't answer. What happened? Why was he off the scene? How badly was he hurt?

But Wilson didn't answer, his gaze fixed on his friend when he noticed how his features moved, how his calm, relaxed expression tightened in pain. It seemed to take an effort to open his eyelids, and when he finally did it, his dark blue eyes communicated a silent cry for help.

Wilson's heart felt like it was being ripped out of his chest. Rarely did one see House in a state in which the pain was so unbearable that he could no longer hide his suffering.

"Don't worry, everything will be fine," Wilson heard himself say in a trembling voice, although he had to admit that he sounded unconvincing. He could hardly believe his own words because how could he assure House that everything would be fine? While Wilson sank briefly into his doubts, House seemed to be slipping away again. His eyelids fluttered in an effort to try to remain conscious. Wilson started talking to him awkwardly, then sat down next to him and carefully put a hand on his shoulder to somehow comfort him.

But House just stared at him tiredly. His face had lost expression, but he was probably trying to say something when he opened his mouth. At first no sound came out, instead he was overwhelmed by a sudden cough that made him caw the dust out of his lungs. When he was finally able to speak, his voice sounded rough and broken, but that wasn't what triggered the cold shock in Wilson that made his heart freeze. It was the meaning of the words themselves.

"Who are you?"