House, having carefully accrued owed favors over the years, spent the next day keeping an eye on the lab, albeit from a distance. He felt helpless simply sitting in his office, but there was nothing else for him to do but be comforted by the fact that he would know whatever there was to know immediately. Truth be told, however, it was no comfort at all. The anticipation was driving him mad, and he was developing a new respect for what Wilson did.
Somehow he made this whole thing easier for people, the waiting and uncertainty. House never really understood it, though. On an intellectual level he could, of course, but there was something Wilson had that House could never quite grasp. Every so often he would look in at Wilson with a patient and the patient would be sobbing and devastated. Wilson would simply place his hand on theirs or sometimes just sit next to them. He would wait with infinite patience for the conversation to continue, and there was always the same look in his eyes. House recognized it because he had been on the receiving end of that look more times than he could remember; it was compassion. Wilson had a seemingly inexhaustible supply of it, and House…House did not. He knew, deep down, that he was not what Wilson would need. His own words seemed to float out of the ether of his memory, taunting him.
"Did it ever occur to you that if you need that kind of friend, you may have made some deeper errors?"
A knock on his office door brought House out of his reverie. Motioning the lab tech inside, the young woman swiftly made her way to House's desk, placing a manila file on his desk. Dimly, House heard himself acknowledge her and then he was once again alone. The closed file seemed to be waiting, daring him to open it. Only half aware of the movement House flipped open the file with his right hand. Two words seemed to draw his eyes instantly, boring into his mind relentlessly.
Malignant glioblastoma.
Though his mind seemed to have stalled, House forced himself to read the rest of the report. Then he stood up, grabbed his cane and made his way out of his office. Intending to simply stand outside for a while, House's legs kept moving, carrying him across the parking lot and to his car. Before he knew it he was back at 221B Baker Street. It was a long time before House, surrounded by more than his usual Vicodin and scotch, simply passed out.
A/N: I was going for a certain shock value with the ending of this...not sure how well I succeeded, but there you go...