A/N: Thank you for the reviews!! As much as I love our dear oncologist, I feel like torturing him again tonight. My apologies. Hope you enjoy this one.
DISCLAIMER: I own season 2, but I don't think that really counts …..
4 months after Christmas day.
"Don't flatter yourself, I'm not a marrying man."
"Well, I won't kiss you for it either."
"Open your eyes and look at me. No, I don't think I will kiss you. Although you need kissing badly. That's what's wrong with you. You should be kissed, and often, and by someone who knows how."
"And I suppose that you think that you are the proper person?"
"I might be, if the right moment ever came."
"You're a conceited, black- hearted varmint,Rhett Butler, and I don't know why I let you come and see me."
A smile appeared on James Wilson's face as he heard these words. Gone With the Wind was one of the few movies he could always watch and not get bored of it. As the movie quickly cut to a commercial, he turned the TV off and reached for his coffee from the nightstand and took a sip. This April morning had started out as any other morning; he would wake up, and order room-service breakfast. Whilst sipping his coffee, he would flip through the classified columns of the newspaper, just after swallowing his little oval friend named Prozac. However this was no ordinary morning. Long before waking up, he was very well aware of the date.
It was April 25th.
It was ok to cry on the 25th (or so his therapist said). It was ok to stay in bed all day. To think back. To miss him…but just as this was no ordinary morning, it wasn't an ordinary 25th. Today he felt motivated. He thought about this day for the past few nights… He knew the risks. He knew that what he had planned to do could very well send him back to that very holy night…but he didn't care. He had to do it.
He had dressed himself in casual clothing. Not too bland, not too formal. Just regular denim jeans, and a plain dark blue shirt. Gone With the Wind was an excuse for him not to leave. Yes, it had distracted him for a nice hour, but a little voice in his head told him. "next commercial break….next commercial break." ..he had finally listened.
He locked the door to his hotel room, and got inside his car. Don't look back…no pauses… He started the engine, and as he pulled away from the driveway, a mental map of a familiar building came into his mind…
30 minutes later…
The key was in the doorknob, the doorknob in his hand. The only thing left to do…was to turn it. He took a few seconds, remembering his last visit. That was a different Wilson. A completely different man, a stranger even. That Wilson thought pain was a 20 hour day in the no-longer-employed-at Princeton Hospital. He shrugged the thought off, and regaining mental control, he turned the knob and opened the door.
It was exactly the same. The TV placed in front of the couch, the walls, the doors….everything.
The only thing missing was Gregory House. For a moment---a precious moment--- he felt that House was going to come out of his room, his right hand accompanying his cane.
"Jimmy, its 10 in the morning. I know you have this unusual attraction to me, but this is getting crazy," he would say sarcastically. Wilson smiled to himself, almost hearing his voice. He ran his fingers softly through the many stacked medical books on the shelves, wondering if House had actually needed any of them. He then crossed over to the small living room. Nothing crossed his mind, he wasn't even thinking until he actually saw it…
It was just like a movie set…the only thing missing was the actor. He stood over the shattered lamp, which was exactly in the same place where he remembered it. The bile, surprisingly, had been cleaned up…and the little orange bottle was in the same place---the same place where he had kicked it. He sighed, wishing it was that night. Wishing he could've thought twice about leaving. Wishing that those few moments were changed with a different action.
And then blue collided with brown.
It was like an extended version.
House lay on the floor, panting. He looked up at Wilson, horrified. This time, his pupils weren't dilated…they were staring into Wilson's eyes. His arms were desperately reaching out to him.
"Wilson….Help me," he croaked.
A small cry of horror escaped Wilson's mouth. He backed away into the couch, blinking rapidly. When he looked at the floor….House was gone. He let out another anguished cry, shutting his eyes tight. He sat there, and mourned out loud, cradling himself. Within 2 minutes, he quickly gained control, breathing in and out.
"Okay….," he said, drying his tears. He nodded, trying to convince himself to get up. "You're okay…" He moved away from the couch, looking away from the scene…but the vision was still in his mind. Wilson was shaking violently, and he tried to remind himself that daytime flashbacks were normal…but this one was more real than all the others…. Without another look, without even turning the lights off, he left the apartment, frightened.
He didn't dare get into his car in his condition, so he started to walk. He didn't know where, but he just had to walk. He kept his eyes to the floor the whole time. Eventually, he found himself in a nearby café. He sat next to window, and ordered coffee, wondering what the hell he was doing there. He tried to calm himself down, and forget the image(but could one really?). He looked around the café: Three young women were doing their thing, chatting lightly—no doubt about some great shoe sale they found. A group of teenage kids, looking deep in conversation. A businessman on his phone—by the aggravated hand movements, he must've lost some type of deal….they all seemed normal. Living their lives day-to-day, without a care in the world. Wilson envied them. He wanted to be like them. He wanted to remember how it felt just to wake up one morning and….live.
Later that night……….
He had stayed in the café until dusk, watching people, thinking to himself. Occasionally polite people would walk past his table, and offer a little smile—which made Wilson envy them more. Bastards can smile so easily, they're even offering smiles. It was half past eight when he decided to leave. He walked back to where his parked car was, but he never got inside the car. He found himself just outside the door of apartment 221 B. He knew if he didn't go back in, he would never go back at all….and he owed it to House.
"You're crazy…" he whispered out loud to himself, just before opening the door. He didn't look straight ahead. He didn't look at the living room, didn't see what's left of the dead Steve lying in his cage, didn't notice the kitchen…there was only one room he wanted to be in.
The only few times Wilson had actually been in House's bedroom were the months preceding the infarction. Once Stacy had left, Wilson took full control. He had helped him onto and off the bed. Sometimes he would stay there overnight, falling asleep on a chair next to him. When the nightmares would come, he would console him. And nothing but that had mattered.
But now the bed was empty. The sheets were still crumpled and tossed around. Wilson smiled. House never liked to make his bed, or wash his dishes…but somehow everything was almost always in place. Ironic. He began looking around the room, when something caught his eyes.
Lying on the edge of the bed, threatening to fall, was a very familiar shirt. Wilson picked it up. It was a light blue blouse. Every inch was horribly wrinkled, but somehow all the buttons were still intact. He couldn't even count the number of times he had seen House wear this, usually accompanied with some white shirt underneath. He held onto the blouse , tightly pressed against his chest. Slowly, he laid himself down on House's bed. He held onto the shirt, feeling as if it was the only remains of his friend left. Without warning, he felt hot tears falling down his cheeks. He buried his face into the shirt, breathing in the scent, crying freely.
Somewhere after two hours, he had fallen asleep. And when he dreamt, for the first time in a long time, he dreamt peacefully.
A/N: I would like to thank Stevin Spielberg. If you remember a little movie called "E.T" there's this one scene where he's sick and lying on the bathroom floor. His hands extend out to Elliot's mother. It was extremely freaky and sad at the same time. I didn't copy this idea, but Wilson's hallucination reminded me of this. Anyways, I really hope you enjoyed this. Please review!!