Summary: House finds the Death Note. He uses it for the benefit of the population, but who really knows what justice is? Future HW slash.

OoOoO

House barely slept that night, so caught up was he in planning exactly he was going to do with his newfound power. The power of life and death over every single human being he could identify. He'd taken on the possibly most infamous terrorist in the world and come out unscathed and completely unsuspected. But would it be just as easy to do it again?

He had to be careful, he knew that. Too far, and even he could get caught out. He could use this to change the world for the better, but if he got caught and the book ended up in the wrong hands…

But it was easy to remain undetected. He just had to pick some random causes of death, and be as patient as possible. And act like he didn't know about things before they happened. He had to keep track of the news. And he had to find new victims… God, that was an ugly word. New targets? It was less impersonal, but it made him feel like a hitman or something.

Anyway, he needed to find new… names and faces. Without making it obvious where he was finding them.

Goddamnit, why was this so difficult? How hard could it be to not get caught killing people without being anywhere near them?

As it neared nine o' clock, he considered calling in sick. Work was far too much effort, and although his leg was bothering him less than usual as he thought things over, it still seemed like altogether too much effort.

But he didn't want to arouse suspicion so soon after such a strange death.

Although for him, taking a day off simply because he couldn't be bothered to go in was pretty normal.

So what should he do?

Goddamnit, guilt made things so confusing. His laptop was beckoning, though, the thought of bringing justice to the many people who deserved it enticing him like nothing else had in so long. It was just so… exciting.

But he didn't want to overdo it. No, he needed to slowly ease himself in. Work would stop him from doing that, distract him with patients, and clinic duty.

Five minutes later Cuddy was rolling her eyes at the message on her answering machine. House was dreadfully ill, and wouldn't be in for at least three days. And it was a Wednesday.

OoOoO

House was glad he lived in relative solitude, because it meant that nobody came bugging him when he spent a few days by himself. He'd had complete privacy for the last few days, and had in fact only left his apartment to purchase a few items he suspected he might need at some point. They were all hidden away, part of the plan he'd been formulating during every waking moment since finding out that the book actually worked.

When the knock at the door came, he was sitting on his couch, laptop on the coffee table, clenching and unclenching his hands because they were beginning to cramp from his spending too long at the computer. He jumped at the sound; so absorbed was he in his task that he had almost forgotten that the rest of the world existed. Sighing, and rolling his eyes because he was perfectly fine, for God's sake, and people should have learnt by now that he could take care of himself, he was careful to close all of his programs before he got to his feet a little unsteadily, popped a Vicodin from the bottle on his coffee table, stretched to the best of his ability, and crossed to the door.

It was a sign of just how distracted he'd been that he didn't quite understand Wilson's shocked expression until he was given a verbal explanation.

"House, you look awful! Have you been sleeping at all?"

"I'm fine. Little insomnia."

It was all House could do not to slam the door in Wilson's face. He hoped the small excuse would be enough to satisfy him, but apparently not as the other man saw fit to enter.

"Are you here to check up on me?" House asked, following Wilson out to the kitchen and watching him express intense annoyance at the contents of his cupboards and fridge.

"You… actually haven't bought anything since I was here, have you? What the hell have you been eating?"

House went to growl a response, but his stomach seemed to beat him to it. Suddenly, he realised how hungry he was and, thinking back, he couldn't remember the last time he had eaten. Or slept. He'd done almost nothing except take his pills, drink coffee and make bathroom trips, eyes fixed almost permanently on his computer screen. He'd basically learnt to touch type simply from spending the entire last couple of days on his computer.

"I'm fine," he said again, though, although he could almost see the cogs working in Wilson's head. Why did he have to worry so much, could he see he was busy?

"House, what day is it?"

House thought back. His computer clock had never been right, so he only had internal calculations to go on, but he could make a pretty safe guess.

"Saturday."

"It's Tuesday!"

Wilson looked horrified, and, thinking about it, House could understand that slightly. He had been a little too absorbed, and if anything was suspicious, it was him losing himself in something enough to miss out three days of his life completely.

"Okay, you're eating something and then going to bed," Wilson's authoritative voice sparked anger momentarily in House's addled brain, before he realised exactly what it was he was doing. He was taking it too far, and he couldn't risk making Wilson, of all people, suspicious. Maybe he should tell him… make him part of it, in order to protect himself.

But what if Wilson betrayed him? He'd done it before! He was suspicious, but whereas before there had been only two options; telling him and hoping or leaving him be and risking, there was now another. Another he could be perfectly sure of.

No.

No! What the hell was wrong with him? This was Wilson, for God's sake, he wasn't just going to… kill him. He couldn't. For a moment, House closed his eyes, trying to compose himself, and when he opened them the other man's evident concern made him want to cry. House, before he could stop himself, reached out for him, and before Wilson could stop him, he'd pulled the other man into a tight embrace.

He felt Wilson tense, could imagine his shocked and disturbed expression, but didn't release him. He just couldn't bring himself to let go of the only consistent thing he had in his increasingly insane life. Even if said consistent thing was very clearly terrified by this unusual display of affection, especially following House's behaviour of the previous few days.

"Can I trust you?"

Wilson jumped, and it was only the movement that triggered House's realisation that he'd actually spoken out loud. He hadn't meant to, he didn't think. He couldn't really remember.

His computer pinged, signifying a new e-mail, and House turned to look at the screen, fighting the urge to find his new names and continue in his task. He had to deal with Wilson first.

"House, what's going on?" Wilson pressed gently as House, for the fifth time in as many seconds, glanced at his computer before forcing his eyes away from it. It didn't take a genius to work out that something was very, very wrong. So, carefully, because he got the impression that a wrong move on his part could mean a rather unsavoury reaction from his sleep-deprived friend, he wrapped his arms around House's waist, holding him loosely, doing his best not to seem restricting in any way. Almost imperceptibly, House relaxed. More obviously, his eyes drifted closed, and he toppled sideways as his right leg gave out beneath him.

If they hadn't been standing next to the couch, Wilson would have just dropped him. He reacted fast enough to vaguely redirect the fall, but despite having barely eaten for almost a week, House was still fairly difficult to catch properly on such short notice. So he lay there, sprawled on the couch and having a much-needed rest while Wilson sighed, threw his hands up in exasperation, and ordered in some food after discarding some bacon that was mouldy anyway, and two tins of macaroni cheese that looked like they'd been there for years.

OoOoO

He hadn't meant to look. Really he hadn't. But House's distracted behaviour pointed to his laptop… his new laptop, and he hadn't been able to resist. A slice of pizza in one hand, Wilson had moved the wireless mouse and found he didn't need a password to access anything.

Twenty minutes later, the same slice of pizza was in his hand, a growing puddle of tomato sauce on the coffee table directly below it and the cheese slowly creeping downwards in an attempt to join it. Wilson, however, was staring at the webpage before him, mouth open in shock as he struggled to comprehend just what the hell was going on. House's internet history was full of news sites, reference pages to mass murderers and rapists and paedophiles… and he'd written all of their names in the notepad he'd obviously kept beside him throughout, his handwriting becoming increasingly illegible with each entry as he detailed awful, excruciatingly imaginative deaths for each of them. Beside them all was a time, and a date. They were spread out, some as many as a year in the future, although Wilson noticed that, generally, the longer the wait, the more agonising the death.

Some were in the past, though, and Wilson scanned back through the sites to find certain coinciding details that made him feel suddenly nauseous. Had House joined some sort of sick cult? Some gang intent on bringing justice to the world?

Trying to keep his breathing steady and his stomach under control, he flipped backwards through the pages to find the first entry. Osama Bin… Holy shit.

He took a deep, calming breath, and covered his mouth with a hand as he felt bile rise in his throat. Something was very, very wrong here. Squinting slightly, since the room was actually fairly dark, he read what was written on the inside of the front cover, scrawled white writing on the black background of the cover.

Right, he thought, unable to suppress the urge to roll his eyes at the stupidity of it all, the book killed people. Now it made sense.

A new e-mail alert caught his attention, and he opened it after a slightly guilty sideways glance at the sleeping House. It was from a DS Rubi Alexander, FBI.

What the hell was House getting himself into? Unable to help himself, Wilson read the admittedly short but still incredibly confusing message.

Greg,

Stop smoking or popping whatever you bought, and get a goddamn grip. Destroy that damn list, or you'll suffer because of some awful coincidence and then I'll have to find a new doctor.

You can't kill people with a book. And if you can, sell it on ebay or something, because every single person in this world is more responsible than you are.

Just in case, what's your doctor friend's phone number?

Also, can you recommend someone to take care of me medically?

Don't do anything stupid.

Rubi

Wilson frowned. House was contacting this woman in the FBI because of how much he believed in this book's powers? What was he doing? Idly, he read down the list again, found that one of the delusional predictions involved a suicidal satanic ritual around five minutes ago; a man from Nevada with multiple convictions for sexual assaults involving minors.

He shouldn't. Oh God, he shouldn't humour House ever, even if he was sleeping. A quick glance, though, and curiosity got the better of him. He switched the TV onto a 24 hour news channel, began to surf the sites House had bookmarked.

Let his mouth fall open and began to hyperventilate as he saw the headline.

Holy shit.

The book worked. House had been asleep for a good half-hour, how could he have known what was going to happen?

This was sick. This was twisted. This was… amazing!

But… really, truly…

Could he be trusted to keep this a secret?

OoOoO

Gosh. How exciting! Death Note double act.

Am I rushing this? I'm just so eager to progress! Let me know if you think I'm going too fast. Or too slow. Or, y'know, if you're just here waiting for the gay sex.