A/N: Thanks for the reviews! You guys rock.
House: I was not wrong. Everything I said was true. It fit. It was elegant.
Wilson: So, reality was wrong.
House: Reality is almost always wrong.
James Wilson is freaking out. Well, not really freaking out, but he's definitely on the panic side of concern. He checks his watch again and the big hand is about 40 minutes past where it should be, considering House still isn't there. Sure, his friend had a habit of being late, but they'd gambled; House had put money on it.
He glances around the bar once more in a misplaced hope that he's simply overlooked the man. When he still only catches sight of an inexplicably tall woman and her counterpart he makes a decision. He gets to his feet and is out the door.
As he drives to Princeton General he tries to get his thoughts straight. House had called him around ten that morning to see if he wanted to get a drink after work. He had said that he should be discharging his patient that evening and needed to celebrate.
He pulls up to the hospital, and parks out front. He's been here so many times that he walks straight to the elevator and presses Up without a second thought. The elevator lifts him to the fifth floor and when he gets out, he makes a sharp left. He walks another fifty feet and is granted the sight of an oak door marked 'Gregory House, M.D.' He knocks sharply.
He hears a shuffle of footsteps and the door swings open.
For a moment he doesn't move or speak. It's House and he's okay. Well, he's alive anyway. But there are dark circles under bloodshot eyes, and his skin is so pale that Wilson isn't sure he's ever seen that color on someone standing up.
"I don't feel like having a drink tonight," House says softly, but the liquor on his breath undercuts his statement.
Wilson pushes gently on the door and gains entry to the room. The door shuts behind him.
"Are you…" His voice trails away as he tries to find a word to complete the question. "Drunk?"
House is silent for several moments before he answers, "I'm working on it."
Wilson sighs, and his snatches the large bottle from the desk. "What happened?"
"Nice try," says House. "You may be stronger, but I fight dirty when necessary."
"House, what happened?"
For a moment Wilson thinks that House isn't going to answer him no matter what he takes away, but finally his friend speaks.
"I lost a patient."
Wilson's resolve disappears, and he relaxes his grip on the bottle. House takes it, and pours himself another glass. "I'm sorry," he says. It's true, but he can't ignore the feeling that there's more to this story. "But you've lost patients before." In the months since the Renaissance Festival House had lost three that Wilson can think of off the top of his head.
House's hand trembles slightly at this and he replies, "The family won't let me do an autopsy."
Wilson nods and turns this over in his mind. He tries to think of something to ease the steady pain that his friend is clearly in, but nothing surfaces. Finally he asks, "What do you think it was?"
"Erdheim-Chester Disease."
"Interesting." He glances at his watch and winces. "House, it's getting late. Let's go."
House doesn't respond, choosing to get his things together in silence. The pair walks out of his office, out of the hospital, each focused on his own thoughts.
"I should have saved her," House says quietly. Wilson turns and eyes him sadly.
"There was nothing you could do," Wilson assures him. "You're not supposed to know everything."
"I know." And they both smile a little.
"You wanna come over," Wilson asks as they arrive at his car. He unlocks the doors and they both get in. "Bonnie was cooking for some friends tonight. There might be leftovers."
House laughs dryly. "In that case, no." He shifts his eyes to the oncologist. "But you could come to my place. Watch a movie. I rented 'Vertigo.'"
"I hate that movie," Wilson argues, though he puts the care in Drive.
"I have a theory on that."
"And what's that?"
"The more you watch a movie, the less likely it is to scare you. Face your fears, Jimmy."
"I'm not scared. It's just creepy. Those faces, and the weird colors. The flowers that make people crazy. I'm not a fan."
"It's classic Hitchcock."
"No," Wilson contradicts. "Classic Hitchcock is 'Rear Window.'"
"So, we'll rent that too."
"I'm not watching 'Vertigo.'"
"Jimmy, I'm depressed."
"Not so depressed that you aren't willing to subject yourself to a movie about someone who dies. Twice."
"It's therapy," House insists.
"And what will I use for therapy after innumerous amounts of viewings of that movie?"
House shrugs (then winces at the sharp pain in his head). "I hear molding clay is supposed to be pretty soothing."
Wilson hides a smile as they pull into House's neighborhood. "Fine. But any clay I buy from here on out comes out of your pocket."