A/N Hey guys; I thought I'd interpret the dream House has here, because it doesn't really make sense to do so in the story. The injured hands symbolize guilt; the falling is a lack of security, control, or support in life. The water/drowning is symbolic of an overwhelming, repressed issue that's coming back to haunt you. The death of a friend/loved one symbolizes a characteristic in that person (the one who has died) that you lack. Aaaaand that's my psych interpretation for the chapter. Enjoy.

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In House's dream, he's being suspended over Niagara Falls. He grasps the rope that supports him for dear life; he looks up to see where it begins, but it disappears into the fog above. He's sweating, straining to support his weight. A breeze sends him spinning, moving back and forth wildly like a pendulum on speed. His hands burn and his face is splashes with wet warmth; his hands are splitting open, sending rivulets of hot blood down his forearms and he thinks unconsciously that the image would make a good picture. But then his mind is brought back to the fact that his grip is loosening; he's slipping away from his lifeline. He begins to slide, slowly at first, then so fast the rope feels like butcher knives, slicing into his thin skin. When he lets go, it's out of reflex. His body is quelling the most immediate pain. He's in the air for a moment, long enough to try to suck in wet air and then he's falling so fast that his skin vibrates, pulsates like a heartbeat. His eyes close instinctively, protect the soft flesh beneath and he feels the air around him, so strong it burns. He curls into a ball, hopes that he'll die on impact because he doesn't want to drown.

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He knows what it feels like to suck in water hoping for air. He'd snuck away from the base in California, giddy with excitement. He'd be back before his dad had to leave. The sand is cool under his feet and he sits on the beach for a few minutes, enjoying the sound of the waves against the beach. It's barely light out but the morning was unusually warm and the swells were big; he waxed his board quickly and ran into the ocean. It enveloped him, splashing over his wetsuit, soaking his hair until it was plastered to his scalp. He paddles out leisurely, takes his time. He's the only person there. His arms are strong; they glide through the water and he turns himself around. Waits. Then he sees it; a massive wave coming for him, waiting for him. It's moving fast and he barely has time to get into position but then he's inside it, moving through it. With it; he reaches out and his fingers pass through the wall of water. He's almost out when it happens. His board gets caught and he's spinning; he's in water, being pushed to the bottom and his feet are over his head. He's still strapped to the board but can't see it. He looks up at the surface, shades of grey that bend and coil in his water-logged eyes. He waits for the wave to pass but then he hits the bottom, which would be fine except there's a jagged rock there, waiting to connect with his scull.

It does and he sees black at first, then all the colors of the rainbow. He can't move. He's trapped in his body, watching from above or near and he sees himself, watches as he's tossed about like pollen on the breeze. Then he can feel again and he's out of air; he pushes toward the surface, prays he'll break through in time. But he doesn't; he inhales and water goes where it shouldn't but then his head pushes through the water and he can see the sky again. He scrambles toward the shore, half running, half swimming. He lays down on the beach and stays there until he thinks he can get up without vomiting. He does, and turns to see red sand where his head was.

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House falls still, going fast now and he sees land under him instead of water. He's so close now, seconds away from painting the ground under him bright red. The impact, when it finally does happen, is not what he expects. The ground supports him, moves under him. Cradles him. He lies on his back, looking up at a ceiling and wonders where his is, but stops mid-thought when he sees a figure in front of him. He can't make out any details; somehow the person is enveloped in shadow. The presence moves, brings an arm up to its head and House hears a sound that everyone recognizes, a sound that can only be one thing. He's covered then, hit by splatters of liquid and small objects that feel like pebbles. He swiped a hand over his face and examines it. Brain matter. The thought is detached; the observation of a doctor. He steps in front of the person, looks closer at what seems to be a man and watches almost passively as his breakfast is regurgitated on his shoes.

Wilson lies on the floor in a puddle of his own blood.

House wakes with a start, sits up with his hands spread in front of him. He gasps, tries to catch his breath and assure himself that everything's ok. Wilson is alive. His dream floods back and he lets out a chuckle that has no humor in it. His subconscious is beating him over the head for his mistakes (dream interpretation bullshit); he's not sleeping much and when he does it's that same dream. Over and over; it makes him restless, turns his sleep into a half-lucid nightmare stuck on repeat. He's awake now and he won't go back. It's not worth it to try. He rolls over, looks at the clock.

It's his last day; he can leave after breakfast. So he waits until the smell of cheap oatmeal and frozen pancakes waft to his room. He gets dressed quickly, picks out clothes without looking and goes to eat. He chooses the oatmeal; he won't be reminded of Wilson by comparing the cardboard-imitating-pancakes to those he's used to. The oatmeal is goopy. There's too much water in it; it has congealed and when it slides down his throat he can't help but think of mucous. He shudders at that but finishes quickly, burning his tongue in the process. He clears his tray, picks up his meds from Voldemort and goes to check out. The psychiatrist is there, waiting for him. Looking at him behind those oh-so-posh glasses. The 'doctor' congratulates him, holds out a hand that is left hanging. House ignores him, grunts something like goodbye, and signs his release forms.

He's in front of Wilson's office almost instantaneously; his hand hovers over the knob and he thinks of knocking but squashes the thought. The door opens and Wilson is revealed, sitting behind his desk, staring into space. House knows he's been heard, knows his presence is felt but Wilson doesn't look up. Instead, his gaze is focused out the window. What he's seeing and thinking can't be discerned by the neutral expression on his face, though House knows the waters underneath Wilson's well-executed façade are anything but serene.

"Wilson," he says. He wants to be seen. He doesn't know how to be ignored. But when the younger man does look at him, House wishes he wouldn't. The gaze is empty, vacant; the type of look reserved for only the most hated.

"How was rehab?" The voice that comes from Wilson sounds right; the tone is on, the pitch is perfect. But there's something wrong. Something off. House feels it and it's like the word is spinning under him; he doesn't know how to make this right; he doesn't know if he'll let himself.

"You know how it was. Did you tell Cuddy?" He's moving, swinging his cane back and forth. Waiting for the real Wilson to appear (waiting for the pod person to abdicate his host's body).

"I did."

"And?" Wilson's hand moves to his neck; he rubs the spot just under his hairline and blinks a few times.

"You're not fired." Wilson opens his desk drawer, pulls out a pad. A prescription pad. He tosses it at House without warning, smirks when it bounces off the older man's jacket and hits the floor. House sees this but bends down anyway to retrieve it. His leg protests on the way down but he straightens himself quickly, pad in hand. The pages are filled out, every one of them. Wilson's signature stands at the bottom; the only missing ink is the date.

"Wilson," it's slow and thick, his voice, and it when it comes out it surprises him. It doesn't sound like him. "I'm sorry." Wilson looks at him, really looks at him for the first time.

"Yeah," he says. "You are." He looks like he's going to continue but changes his mind. Presses his lips together as if trying to keep the words in. But they come out, push past Wilson's teeth, over his mouth which is almost bared at House (looks like he wants to rip him apart).

"All you do is take. You poison everything and everyone around you. I should have left you in your apartment to drown in your own vomit." Wilson seems to be surprised when the words clear the air; they make the silence as sharp as knives, and he's drawn blood. The wound is deep and efficient. He's cut House as badly as he can. The older man nods, backs out of the office and leaves Wilson alone, sitting in his office to decide whether he's gone too far.

So it goes.

And so the days pass by. The invisible lines that once connected House to Wilson have polarized; now they separate, keep apart. Both men live their lives while blackness fills the place inside them where hope used to be, but neither notices it much. They're used to disappointment now. Neither looks to the future; instead they live in the present, day by day. Getting through minutes and hours that try to rip them apart, try to eat them alive. They think of each other sometimes, often at the same moment, just before sleep. Sometimes House leans on the wall of his terrace and wills Wilson to come out, but it serves to be a useless endeavor. He goes home at night, alone (always alone), and just tries to make it through the night. Sometimes it's all he can do.

THE END.

(But not to worry; there will be an epilogue)