ABSOLUTE FEAR
Part Two
House noticed Wilson standing outside the door only moments later. He was completely white, whiter than his lab coat and he was frozen on the spot. But the only thing House noticed was the wet spot on Wilson's pants. He figured that he must have spilled coffee or juice on himself and he couldn't resist making a crack about it.
"Damn, that Cuddy!" House expressed. "Is she wearing that short black skirt with that super low-cut pink blouse again? I mean, I've heard of wet dreams before, but not in the middle of the day!" He chuckled.
Wilson managed to move off to one side and clutched the wall. He started hyperventilating. He felt like his shirt and tie were strangling him. He slid to the floor, gasping for air.
"Jesus, Wilson, it was just a joke," said House and crouched down to observe his friend. "Wilson? What the hell is wrong?" House realized that Wilson was not joking around and that he was in serious distress.
"Chase, get your ass out here!" House called as he loosened Wilson's tie and undid the top two buttons on Wilson's white-collared shirt.
"What's going on?" Chase inquired as he looked, concerned, at Wilson.
"I don't know!" House retorted. "I came out here and made fun of the spill on his pants and he went all Alien on me!"
Chase grabbed a nearby wheelchair and they hoisted Wilson into it. Then they wheeled him to an examination room, three doors down from where Glenn was. Glenn had tried to see what the commotion was all about, but couldn't, since he was hooked up to an IV and couldn't get out of bed. It didn't even occur to him that Wilson could have been somewhere in the hospital, because as far as he knew, Wilson was dead.
In Wilson's room, Chase was getting Wilson some doctor's scrubs, while House gave him an oxygen mask.
"It's just a coffee stain," said House. "I'm sure it will dry."
"It's not coffee, House," Chase said as he removed Wilson's pants and saw that his boxer shorts were wet also. "It certainly doesn't smell like it."
House took a sniff and wrinkled his nose.
"It's urine," Chase told him, though he had already figured that much out.
"Are you telling me that Wilson just pissed himself?" House demanded.
"It looks that way." Chase answered.
"What could've made him do that?" House wondered out loud.
"Maybe he has bladder or kidney damage from… well, from what happened to him," Chase suggested.
Wilson was shaking his head.
"We checked that already, dumb- ass!" House snapped.
"It could be a bladder or urinary tract infection," Chase hypothesized. "Has he been using the washroom a lot, lately?"
"What am I , his nursemaid?" House was yelling now. "How the hell should I know? It's not like I keep a record book on how many times a day Wilson takes a piss!"
"I just figured that since he was staying at your place, you may have noticed something like that." Chase explained.
"Well, I didn't," said House, lowering his voice again. "So you figured wrong!"
At this point, Wilson had taken the oxygen mask off and tried to catch his breath on his own.
"It's him; I know it's him!" Wilson cried. "I know that voice, it's him! Help me, Chase!" He tugged at Chase's lab coat as Chase tried to put the mask back on. Wilson pushed it away, stubbornly.
"Him who?" House asked.
Wilson started hallucinating. Everyone's face started to look like Glenn's, with the black mask over his eyes. Then, he started to envision and worse, feel the pain all over again.
"No, stop!" Wilson was screaming. "Get away from me! Stop! No, don't hurt her! Please, just let me die!"
"Get Cuddy!" House barked and Chase hurried out of the room to find Lisa Cuddy, the Dean of Medicine. When they returned, House had given Wilson a mild sedative and he was starting to calm down.
"I don't want to die," Wilson was talking very slowly and very quietly. "I don't want to die." He looked at House. "House, help me. They're going to…" Wilson closed his eyes and fell asleep.
"What's going on?" Cuddy asked. "Is Wilson alright?"
"For the time being," House replied. "First he pissed himself and then he had a panic attack."
"Well, why?" Cuddy inquired, confused.
"Gee, I don't know," said House sarcastically, hitting his forehead with the palm of his hand. "Could it be because he was kidnapped and tortured by a psychopath? Jesus Christ, Cuddy, are you that dense?"
It took more than insults from House to get Lisa Cuddy going. She simply ignored them. She was used to them.
"I meant what brought it on?" she rephrased. "What caused it?"
"Panic attacks are usually pretty spontaneous," said Chase, looking at Wilson. "There isn't always a cause or reason for them to occur."
House and Cuddy looked thoughtful for a moment.
"However, he did have an accident beforehand," Chase added. "And something must have set that off."
"It was fear." House suddenly concluded.
Chase and Cuddy looked at House in question and confusion. What could Wilson possibly be afraid of here at PPTH? He was among friends. House was annoyed.
"Didn't you ever see that movie Ransom?" he asked and they nodded. "Remember when Mel Gibson was talking to Gary Sinise and his son was in the hallway? As soon as he heard Sinise's voice, hence his kidnapper's voice, he pissed himself. Because he was scared that much." House finished, proud that he had figured it out.
Chase looked at the clipboard in his hand while Cuddy still looked confused.
"Well, it's plausible," she agreed. "But his kidnapper isn't here…?" It was more of a question than a statement.
"Uh… House," Chase said, looking up with wide eyes. "What did Dr. Wilson say were the names of the kidnappers?"
House pressed a finger to his temple, thinking.
"Glenn and Dave, I think," he replied. "Why?"
Chase tapped his finger on the clipboard. "That patient who was admitted, the one who passed out and was complaining about chronic headaches," Chase said. "The one we were just talking to?"
"What about him?" House demanded, impatiently.
"This chart," Chase swallowed a lump in his throat. "It says: Patient Name: Glenn Edgar. Admitted by: Dave Dowling."
Everyone in the room, including House, froze. It couldn't be.
"There's no proof---" Cuddy began.
"Shut the hell up, Cuddy!" House shouted. "What more proof do you need? Wilson obviously walked by and heard the bastard then… lost control! Are you stupid?" House limped to the door as fast as he could.
"Where are you going?" Cuddy inquired, notably irked at House for telling her to shut up and calling her stupid.
"I'm going to go and save us a heap of paperwork by killing that bastard and his friend." House declared, angry.
"And how do you propose to do that?" Cuddy questioned him. "Bludgeon him to death with your cane?"
House looked thoughtful.
"Well, I was just going to put my hands around his scrawny little neck, but I like your idea better." he said.
"House." Cuddy warned and he sighed and leaned against the door frame. They were all silent again, looking at their friend sleeping on the bed.
"What should we do?" Chase asked carefully. "I mean, we can't… treat this guy."
"Yes we can," Cuddy told him. "And we have to. We have obligations as doctors to treat every patient who comes into this hospital."
"Fuck obligations!" House cursed. "That prick can die for all I care!"
"Just do your job." Cuddy said. "I'll take care of the rest." And with that, she was out the door.
"Hah, easy for her to say," House forced a laugh. "She gets to sit in her office and pretend to be important while we are left to pick up the slack. This bites!" He exclaimed, irritated and downright ticked off.
"She's right, though," Chase sighed, defeated. He didn't want to help Wilson's kidnapper anymore than House did. "We took an oath, House."
"My oath is hereby void," House announced as if making a speech. "My loyalty to Wilson, however, still stands." Before he left, he turned to Chase again. "And if anyone makes me go into that room, I swear to God, I'll kill that patient." He limped away defiantly and Chase knew that there was no way in hell that House was ever going to change his mind.
"I'm not sure about this," said Cameron, after Chase had explained to her and Foreman what had just gone on in the hallway of the ER. "I know what Dr. Cuddy said is true, but don't we have an obligation to protect Wilson, too?"
Nobody said anything. They didn't have to. The look in their eyes told Cameron that they agreed with her, completely.
"As long as this Glenn stays in that room and Wilson stays in the Oncology Department, it should be okay," said Foreman. "There's no reason that they should ever have to cross paths. And from what Wilson said, this guy probably thinks he's dead." (House had already told them the exact story Wilson had told the officer, so they knew exactly what had happened to their friend).
Chase and Cameron nodded in agreement.
"We should tell this to House," Cameron suggested. "I mean, we need him on the case."
"You know House is too stubborn to change his mind," Chase reminded her. "We're on our own. We'll just have to try and think like House."
Cameron and Foreman gaped at him as if he had just suggested the impossible. And he had. Sure, they could listen to House, obey him and hang on his every word, but could they actually think like their elusive boss? Who knew how House's brain worked, anyway?
When Wilson awoke some time later in the ER, it took him a moment to remember what had happened. He remembered having to go and talk to Lisa Cuddy. He remembered walking down the hallway, then stopping to observe House and Chase (more so Chase) talking to a male patient with flaming red hair. Then he remembered that voice. That horrible, malicious, evil, unmistakable voice. The voice of Glenn.
Wilson shivered and pulled the blankets up to his chin as if trying to protect himself from some unseen force. Somewhere in that hospital, in that so-called Safe Haven, was a psychopathic killer. The man who tortured Wilson to the point where he begged for death. The man who raped and killed Marissa right in front of him. And the man who had left him for dead in the middle of nowhere.
He looked around the room. He saw his black dress pants draped over a chair and remembered, shamefully, that he had wet himself out of pure fear at hearing Glenn's voice. He never would have thought it possible, to be scared that much that he'd lost control.
When House came into the room to check on his friend, Wilson immediately started shooting him with a million questions.
"Where is he? Is he in restraints? Did you call the cops? Did they come and arrest him and his twisted little friend? Did they?"
"Actually, he's about three doors down, free as a bird." House replied, frankly. "I believe his twisted little friend is in the Waiting Room." House didn't know why he was so nonchalant about it. He should have lied at the risk that the truth may induce Wilson into having another panic attack.
But he didn't. Instead, Wilson hid his face under the blankets and gave a whimper. House yanked them off and rolled his eyes.
"Come on, Wilson, they're not going to get you," House said, his voice laced with irony. "They think you're dead, remember?"
This brought no comfort to Wilson. At this point, he'd rather be dead that three doors down from his kidnapper.
"But what if they find me?" Wilson whined, trembling at the thought of having to face them again. "They'll come after me again, House. They won't stop until I'm dead. For good. Finish the job, you know?"
"Oh, they'll stop," said House, "they'll have to. As soon as we-or they- know what's wrong with him -besides his being a psycho- Cuddy will be putting him in restraints and calling the cops. She said she'd take care of it."
"What's wrong with him?" Wilson repeated, now angry. "Don't tell me you're actually going to treat him? He belongs in the Mental Ward in a straight jacket! There's your diagnosis!" Wilson spat.
"Well, according to Cuddy, we have obligations as doctors and we should just do our job." House relayed what Cuddy had said, hating every word.
Wilson sighed and buried his head in his pillow.
"If it makes any difference, I'd prefer to kill him than cure him," House said, sincerely. "I mean, it's not my fault that Cuddy's being a bitch. Hmm," he added, thoughtfully. "I always knew she had a thing for Bad Boys."
Wilson was not in the mood for House's dry humor. But deep inside, he even knew Cuddy was right about doctors having obligations. Wilson had never turned down a patient in all his years as a doctor. How could he expect House to do it?
"Just do what you have to do and call the cops." Wilson told House, feeling defeated. "I don't want to hear about it. I don't care."
"I'm not on the case this time, Watson," House attempted another joke. "But I'm sure my minions are. The best we can hope for is that the cock-sucker has an inoperable brain tumor and that he'll die a slow, painful death."
Wilson's face was still buried in the pillow, but House heard a small giggle. Wilson never wished anything like that on anybody, but in this case, he'd make an exception.
He sat up and looked at House. A small bit of empathy flickered in House's eyes. Wilson was grateful, but he was getting a little tired from all the sympathy and pity everyone was still showing him. It had been over two month already and it was getting to be too much.
"I need to get out of here," Wilson said, getting out of bed. "Clear my head. Go for a drive or something."
"That makes two of us," said House. He didn't want to be there anymore than Wilson did.
"Actually, if it's all the same to you, I'd rather just go alone this time." Wilson said. He felt bad not asking House to come along, but then knew that he'd understand. If anyone knew about the need to be alone, it was House.
"Alright then," House shrugged and did understand. "Just don't be gone too long. And make sure you use the back exit or you may run into that twisted little friend of his." House liked using Wilson's phrase for Dave.
Wilson nodded, did up his shoes and hurried out the back doors. He looked pretty silly in blue scrubs, a white lab coat and black dress shoes. But it didn't really matter. Nobody would see him anyway.
Wilson drove for what seemed like forever. He found a mini-mall with a quaint little coffee shop at the corner and decided to stop, get a coffee and browse through the windows of the shops that were there.
Wilson took his coffee black this time, enjoying the bitterness of every sip he took. He was glad to be far away from the hospital, far away from Glenn, far away from anyone. But why did he still feel so sad? Wilson realized that he was sub-consciously trying to run away from everything. He may have run from Glenn and work, but he still carried the emotional pain. There was no running from that. Sooner or later, he'd have to face-it, head-on and begin to heal. It would take time, but Wilson knew it was the only way to ever feel normal again. He was scared that even though he'd eventually get over it, he would never feel completely normal. It felt as though Glenn had, in fact, taken his life. Not by killing him, but by permanently damaging his heart and soul. The scars on his body would never compare to the emotional scars. He would have to live with the images of his ordeal for the rest of his life.
Wilson came across a Pawnshop and saw a black, glittering object, shining in the window. It was a gun and it called to him, somehow. Wilson pressed his face against the glass and started at it, intently.
That's it, he suddenly thought. That's the answer. The only way to end the pain.
Wilson checked his wallet and was glad that he had enough cash to buy it and that was just what he did. He also bought a box of bullets. He really only needed one. If he did it properly, he'd only need one shot. He got in his car and loaded one bullet in the gun. He sat there, staring at it for a long time. It mocked him, But it was his destiny.
End of Part Two
Author's note: Okay, I know that nowadays you can't just drive up and buy a gun at a Pawnshop. But I can't exactly have Wilson purchase a gun and have to register it and do whatever else that needs to be done. Talk about boring! I also want to dedicate this fic and the other one to Glenn and Dave who made my life a living Hell for over a year. LOL! I look forward to more reviews. So until the final chapter, enjoy!