Chapter Five:
Loose Ends

"Dear Agony, just let go of me - suffer slowly - is this the way it's got to be?" - Breaking Benjamin, "Dear Agony"

The next morning Wilson awoke with a sense of deep seated apprehension in his heart. He felt himself becoming tense, his vision blurry, and his head splitting and out of habit reached for the bottle of Valium that would have been resting on his vanity; however, upon groping around he remembered that he had thrown it out the window of his moving car the afternoon before. Cursing himself under his breath, he leaned back on the bed he let out a long sigh and tried to calm himself. After several minutes he felt the efforts were futile and resigned to simply dealing with the discomfort until he could find either another bottle of Valium or an acceptable substitute. The best he could come up with was the spare bottle of aspirin that he had in the second drawer of the vanity next to the bed.

He spent the next hour and a half drifting through the apartment, moving through the motions he felt contributed to his "normal life"; things like taking a shower, making breakfast, and dressing himself. Each new routine seemed to create a new and unexpected challenge for him. The shower, which shouldn't have caused the slightest second thought, became a marathon of endurance as each new splash of water smacked down upon his bare silhouette. Each drop a new wound open from a memory of himself and Amber together in the shower, making love in the early morning light. Out of a kind of unrealized grief he managed to turn the knob on the heated water all the way. A fact that he didn't notice until he felt the heat from the water blister across his bare flesh. He wanted to feel the bitter sting of the droplets of heated water beating across him like razors along his wrists. He deserved it for not being a better man to her, for letting her down, and for not doing what he should have done before. Finally, when his skin had become red and sensitive he climbed out and watched as the remains of the water flushed down.

Making breakfast brought the hazy memories of Amber cooking him his morning meals before he would leave for the hospital. He found himself unable to avert his observation of the coffee mug that she had left the evening she was taken from him; containing the revenants of the Pepsi she had been drinking awaiting her return. He knew that it was unsanitary to leave the mug as she had left it, but he couldn't bring himself to clean it and remove the drink. It was all he had left of her and, as audacious as it sounded, he didn't want to remove it from where she had left in case of her return. He knew this was a castle in the sky, but it helped him sleep at night and sleep had become an act that he was both uneasy about and desire more than anything, save for his silent addiction. He knew that sleep would allow his mind to rest, for a little while, and not dwell in the stark reality around him. He could see Amber, be with her, and enjoy their few little moments with one another before the sun rose and stole it away from him. Again.

Dressing himself was something he had been doing, with much success, since he was six years old. He was like most children his age and wanted to explore the various styles and fashions, each new era of his life dictating his new style, starting with his late childhood as the preppy boy, followed by the teens as the angst ridden Goth, and finally his twenties - and with it college and med school - brought the starched collar business suit wearing James Wilson. This morning, however, none of that seemed to matter. He shifted from his weekly business attire to his more relaxed weekend wear and found himself continually unhappy with his choices. He finally, after much debate and effort, decided upon a pair of new blue jeans Amber had bought him, designed to look old, and The Dead Milkmen, one of several band shirts he had managed to steal from House over the decades, t-shirt. Even those brought back unwanted memories of Amber, helping him establish a weekend look that wasn't, as she had lovingly called it, "bland and out of date." Despite this, it was the only comfortable options he had.

Once he had managed to trudge through the weary day-to-day routines he felt entrapped by, he forced himself to start the obligatory packing for his journey. He didn't know how long he it would be before he returned to Princeton, or if he would come back, but he knew it would be more than a week. It was with this mindset that he chose several outfits - each unique in its own right - and two suits. He knew that it was likely he wouldn't need the suits, but he brought them along because he believed it was better to be ready for anything. Checking to make sure he had enough clothes with him, he walked over to the vanity and selected several novels to bring along - beyond the ones he had purchased the afternoon before - in case he ran out of things to read along the way. As he stuffed his copy of Michael Crichton's Sphere into his bag he smiled to himself for the first time. It was an odd choice, he reflected, but it was one that had spoken to him. And in his current state of mind that's what he felt he required. Something that spoke to him.

Glancing around one final time to make sure he didn't miss anything, he zipped the suitcase closed and rested it at the door. He knew he better than to think he could have left the apartment as it was. He would need someone trustworthy to house sit for him in his absence. He would deal with that once he was done tying up loose ends at the hospital. Wilson knew he could trust Cameron and Chase to watch the apartment, but he kept coming back to Cuddy as the most reliable option he would have. He would cross that bridge when he came to it. He would be laying a lot upon her shoulders as it was, he didn't want to weigh her down too much. He owed her that much. And it was in bad form, he thought, and the new James Wilson didn't do things out of bad form. He would think of someone, eventually. One thing he knew for absolute certain, he would not be asking Gregory House to watch over his apartment. He had made that mistake more than once and it was not one he was about to make again.

There was a solemn silence that filled the air as he walked to the front door. He was aware that this could be the final time he slept there, showered there, ate in the small kitchenette, or watched a movie. In his heart he knew that he would return, sooner or later, but it wouldn't be before he found himself; found what was missing from his life. It could be a two week long vacation and he could come back full of life and ready to resume his duties as the Head of Oncology or it could be months before he was able to find it in himself to return and even that might be to wrap up the loose ends dangling above him at the hospital so he feel better about leaving. For what felt like the first time in his life, James Wilson had no idea what he was heading towards. He only knew that he was in search of the new James Wilson. A man who was better than he was now, much more secure in himself. Who wasn't afraid to stand up to those around him and say no to the things that he didn't want to do. But most importantly, he was, in the end, the man he wanted to be.

With a vague sense of accomplishment and the aspiration to carry on he walked through the front door and stepped out into the warm May air. Wilson found it anomalous that the section of town he resided in seemed to be vivacious at the strangest hours of the day, yet at the first signs of morning, it felt almost tranquil. Checking the time, he saw that it was a few minutes after eight in the morning. It was often around this time that the street was bustling with people coming home from their evening shifts and others were venturing out to begin their adventures in the corporate universe. It was also not a point in the day when he was usually outside. He had always found himself knee deep in work by this time and half anxious about the first break in the day, breakfast. Which was often held in congress with House and Cuddy or, on the rarest of occasion, he was able to have it alone. By himself. Allowing him the chance to think about the choices he had made, would have to make, and the treatments laid out for those under his care. "Strange." he said to himself as he hauled the suitcase to the trunk of the car. Fumbling with the keys, he finally located the one to open the trunk. Lifting the suitcase and resting it inside he felt a sense of satisfaction. He had taken the first steps on the Healing Road. Proud of himself, he climbed in the car and turned it over, heading towards Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. He was feeling confident that things would run smoothly once he arrived.

Wilson was stunned that the drive from Amber's former apartment to the hospital was as unadulterated as taking a delightful walk with Amber through Princeton's eloquent Autumn Leaves Park and Camping Grounds. He had been expecting a catalyst of constant reminders of his relationship with Amber, wave after wave of unexpected and unwarranted suffering that he would have no defense against. He knew it would be made worse by the actuality that he had thrown the one cure he had was now somewhere below the streets of Princeton, likely making its way to New York or some other exotic location. Brushing those thoughts and feelings from his mind, Wilson focused on the drive to the hospital. It wasn't long before he found himself in the Visitor's Parking section of the hospital. He knew that he wouldn't have much trouble if he wanted to be closer to the building - namely in his own parking spot - but it didn't feel right. He wasn't coming in as Dr. James Wilson. He was entering the hospital as a visitor now, as another one of the hundreds of people who walked through the double doors. He didn't require any concessions on his behalf. Parking several hundred yards from the entrance also afforded him the time he needed to brace himself for what was ahead of him.

Climbing out of the car he took in a deep breath. Glancing around, he hadn't known how long he had held his breath, but he could feel the sting from within his lungs that altered him to his human need to release the oxygen he had taken in so he could breathe. He knew that it had been longer than he had expected. Letting out the breath, he felt the tension in his chest release and a sense of ease wash over him. Continuing to survey the parking lot he saw that it wasn't as crowded as he had been expecting it to be. This would make it a bit more difficult to avoid the nurses, but he was certain that he could manage. Closing the door on the car he took his first step forward toward the double doors that he had walked through countless times before. In his heart he hoped he could avoid House, or those on his staff, but he knew the chances of doing that would be slim. He would have been better off if he had decided to play the lottery. At least with that he had the illusion of chance. It was more than he could say of his current situation.

As he shuffled from his vehicle he found himself listening to snippets of various conversations. Each one was as unique as the last, however, there seemed to be a singular topic that each fostered: the hospital. Some exuded excitement about the return of loved ones who had entered ill but were now leaving healthy, some were abundant with remorse over lost loved ones, who unlike the prevalence of others who enter, would not be leaving in such brilliant conditions. Still, some were snippets of conversations between doctors. Wilson felt a pang of anger wash over him as he drew closer to the double doors and caught a fragment of a conversation. He was unsure who the two conversing were, but what he did know was both were doctors and both were discussing House's failure. It was a stark reminder of the reason he would be standing in Cuddy's office, hands at his sides, feeling as if the ground beneath his was rushing up to smack him in the face, and unsure of what to say. Swallowing the growing lump in his throat, Wilson continued to the entrance. It was a reminder that had come as unwelcome as the events of the morning triathlon.

There was a soft whoosh sound as he drew closer to the double doors. He felt a slight breeze as he enter, mussing with his hair, and causing him to shiver. Once he had breached the hospital he allowed himself to glance around and take stock of what was going on around him. To his right he saw the wall that notified visitors and doctors alike of the donations that had been made, what was coming up, and who was the "Doctor of the Month." Ahead of him were the elevators, where he had spent more time than he cared to amount talking with House, making bad excuses, and making amends. It became painfully clear to him that it was also within the cold steel walls, lifeless and bland, that he had first met Amber and offered his best attempt at small-talk. A sudden thought that this very room, this entranceway, held more memories for him than any other location in his life. He had made friends there, broken hearts, mended the sick, and taken comfort in the simple things. It was as if it was a metaphor for his heart, open and closed, all at once.

Forcing those thoughts from his mind, Wilson spun on his heel and swerved to his left; toward his first and final destination in the hospital. Standing before him was the Clinic, where he had spent most of his free time doing the countless hours of Clinic Duty that House had neglected while he was off "saving lives." At first he would have thought this was a bland excuse to skip out on his duties, and most of the time it was, but every now and then there was a subtle hint of truth hidden in House's lies. Taking a deep breath, he ventured along the invisible road that he had walked so often it was second nature to him now. He stopped for a moment to take in the frosted lettering above the twin sets of double doors. The frosting read "Dr. Lisa Cuddy, Dean of Medicine". It was something that he had intrinsically known was there, but never had taken the time to look at; it was something akin to his friendship with House. It was always there, and would remain long after he had left the hospital, but he had never honestly taken the time to notice it for what it was.

"I can do this," he said to himself as he reached for the handles on the first set of doors, "I have to do this. Christ, listen to yourself! You should like you're a damn bumbling detective!" Wilson scoffed at himself. He could feel the cold steel door handle beneath his hand. It felt strange to him for the first time to be there, holding this metal handles, and notice the fact that they were colder than almost anything else around him. Perhaps it was in his head more than an actual truth he could touch. Either way, he bit down and retained his focus. It became apparent to him that he was looking down at the handle as he shifted his weight to open the door. Looking up, he saw that the woman he had come to speak with was sitting behind her desk, with an unknown figure sitting before her. Wilson felt himself becoming panicked and started to turn, but he caught himself before it was too late. Before he could walk away without the chance to speak to her before he left. Something he would have regretted.

It wasn't until he was moving through the second set of double doors that he saw who the strange figure was. In an instant Wilson felt his fists becoming clinched, tighter with each passing second, as the figure's features became clear. The long shaft of a cane, the half done collar of a dress shirt, and the messy hair. Wilson wanted to scream, but he fought back the creeping desire. Biting his lower lip until he felt the sting of pain radiate out of his mouth, he moved from the entrance to the couch that was several feet to his right. A small trickle of blood escape his lip and bled into his mouth. He silently hoped that neither one of them had taken the chance to notice the discomfort he was experiencing or the blood that was now pooling in his mouth. House shifted his weight in the chair in front of Cuddy. She smiled to Wilson and motioned that she would need a moment. "As I was saying," she said to House, "I need you to behave like the forty something man that you are; in other words, I need you to be an adult." she scolded. Wilson couldn't help but chuckle to himself at her remark.

"I have been acting like an adult," House retorted suavely in the same arrogant tone he always used, "but it's difficult to do my damn - you know what? I'm having trouble giving a damn what you're doing. How about you, Wilson?" he asked looking back to Wilson. Wilson could feel his heart sinking in his chest as House spoke. "Oh, Wilson!" he shouted, as if he hadn't heard what the man he had until recently called his friend had said. Swallowing the bile that had crept its way into his throat he fought to find the right things to say. He knew that House wouldn't take silence as an answer, but he wasn't about to find himself following along with his antics.

"House, I'm not in the mood for this." he replied. House stared at him almost as if he was studying a strange new disease, an alien creature that had walked in unannounced and declared itself as James Wilson. Wilson knew that he would have to find something to say that would allow him to make his point, but he was never quite sure what that something was when dealing with House. "I'm here to speak with Cuddy; nothing more. Now, take care of what you're taking care and I'll take care of what I have to and we can move along." he spoke with conviction that felt like he was lying to all three of them. In truth, he was lying. He had little to take care of and he was only in that room out of a sense of duty that wouldn't allow him to do anything less than such.

"House," Cuddy snapped at House drawing his attention back to her, "I need you to leave Wilson alone. Go. Go and do the damn MRI you were waltzing in here acting like a two year old about." she said with a tone of absolute exhaustion. He could tell that House had been wearing down on her nerves more than usual, but he knew that there was nothing he could do to help her without drawing the kind of attention that he was attempting to avoid. It was, in a small way, kind of nice to see that some things hadn't changed. Even if it was the very things he wanted to more than life itself.

Wilson watched as House stood, looked for a moment at Cuddy, and then him. "You know, if you wore something as low-cut as that, Wilson, I might be inclined to -" he said, but before he had a chance to choke out the rest of the statement, Wilson watched as Cuddy came around from behind her desk to meet him face-to-face. He could feel the tension between the two of them, Cuddy standing firm with her right hand on her hip and her left hand being used as a threat, and him standing several inches taller - almost looming over her - resting on his cane and bolstering that childish stance he wore better than most six year olds. For a moment it looked as if the two might abscond, a odd thought for him to think in such a time, but he couldn't help it. He had watched the two of them do this dance a hundred times over. Part of him was sick. Part of him wanted to see them do it. But the only thing that mattered right now to him was the small section of himself that wanted it to be over.

"Finish that statement and I swear to God House that you will be spending the rest of your natural born life in the Clinic," she threatened, "now, leave the two of us alone before I call someone -" she continued. For a moment she hesitated, unsure of how to finish the threat, but it didn't take long before House was back in the front lines. Wilson wanted to climb inside the couch and vanish, but he knew that would be impossible. He also knew what was about to come would be an explosion of unease. Out of instinct he found himself looking through his coat pocket for the bottle of Valium, but as he searched in futility he was brought back to the painful memory that he had decided that he was better than that. He was better than House, who had become so dependent upon his own little chemical friends.

"Or else what?" he scoffed back at her, "You know damn well that I'm the best you have!" he shouted. Wilson could feel the tension in his chest becoming too much to handle, but he fought back the physical signs that might offer House a clue. "And what the hell are you doing here, Wilson?" he asked, directing all of his attention to Wilson now. Wilson bit down on his lower lip. "Well, what are you doing here Wilson? It's a simple question." he teased. "Because you know and I know that there's a reason you're here. And it isn't to play footsie with Dr. Cuddy. Unless it is." he directed his attention to her and then Wilson. Wilson felt himself become increasingly bothered by the accusation and the desire to beat the essence of life from his friend.

"House, I'm not playing around right now. Leave before this becomes a lot worse than it is." Cuddy said moving from in front of the desk. Her voice was even and strict. It was a tone that she had taken only several times before with House and one that Wilson was not privy to hearing very often. She was now standing between Wilson and House. Wilson stood from the couch and drew closer to House. "James," she said resting a hand on his chest, "sit back down." she was doing her best to exude her authority, but her small frame seemed to vanish between the two men. Wilson knew she was right, though, despite his intense need to express a side of himself that would not be becoming for a man of his standings in the medical community. Or his age.

"Please don't stand in the middle of this, Lisa." Wilson replied, removing her hand from his chest. He watched as House took each intricate motion in. He knew that his mind was spinning with the hundreds of solutions to this puzzle, what it might mean, and how to exploit it. Wilson knew that look too well, having seen it during hundreds of their strange conversations when House would up and leave without warning. "House, I'm warning you. I am not in the mood to be dealing with your shit right now. Am I clear?" he asked.

"Crystal." House replied. There was a distance to his tone that frightened Wilson a bit. He was unsure if House was making the same assumption that most would make in relation to the tenderness between himself and Cuddy or if he was in the middle of an epiphany in regards to his current case. "How long have you two been dating behind my back?" he asked. Wilson felt a surge of anger rush through him. House's lips fashioned into a smirk. Wilson knew that if he tried to defend the friendship it would offer House more evidence and if he blew it off it would be the same as proclamation. This was one of those times when he knew that he had to let House have his way. If not, he would never see the end of the conversation and it would end in more heartbreak than it already could have.

"House how dare you ask something so immature," Cuddy exclaimed almost shouting now, "leave now before I make damn sure you're living in the Clinic. Do the damn tests, have Thirteen or Foreman bring me the results, and solve the fucking case. I don't care. Just get the hell out of my office." she fumed. It was within that moment that Wilson understood the exact meaning of the saying 'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned' and was happy to be standing on the outside of the fury. If anything, he found a small bit of amusement in the idea that House was the target of her anger. An anger that he was sure he had been on the wrong side of several times before. He was, after all, Gregory House and he loved to play games with her. So, for him this should have been nothing new.

Despite his assumption, Wilson watched as House struggled to find a response. It wasn't often that House was left without something to say; some cynical remark or one of the hundreds of cruel observations he would often use to tear someone else down. Wilson silently relished the moment. "Oh, come on! It doesn't take a neurologist to see that the two of you are -" House was interrupted by the sudden connection of Wilson's fist and his jaw. "Son of a bitch!" he yelped aloud as he fell back. There was a loud crash as he smacked the floor and his cane danced across the room to the double doors. For a moment no one in the room knew what had happened. The air became thick with emotion and raw with tension that had finally reached its climax.

"That felt," Wilson said turning his attention to Cuddy now, "that was a long time coming, am I right? God, this fucking…ouch." he continued. Looking down it became obvious to him that despite having used little force to hit House, he had still managed to hit him swiftly enough to draw blood on his knuckles. "I should be leaving now." he replied, looking from House on the floor to the Dean of Medicine. There was a long silence as he watched her collect her thoughts. "Lisa, I didn't mean for it to end like that." he offered, nursing his bleeding hand. The pain that was emitted from his hand was a welcome reward to something that he had been unable to stop himself from doing. He just wished that he had thought of something else instead of such a brash action that had lead to his own injury.

"I don't know what to do," she replied finally, "I mean, he did have that coming to him." she rested her left hand on her hip and used the right to brush back her hair. "James, this doesn't excuse the fact that you've…I don't even - how - what can I do?" she asked him. There was a tone of cross in her voice that spelled it out to him. She was upset, but she was debating on how to handle the case. "I can't let you off on this." she continued, searching for an answer. Wilson brought his hand to his mouth and tried to blow on the knuckles to ease the burn that was starting to set in from the impact.

House moaned as he reached out for his cane. Wilson wanted to help the man he once knew as his best-friend, but he knew that would be like rubbing it in his face. "That was," he choked out, "I had that coming." he said as he climbed to his feet. "I had that coming…" he mumbled now, bracing himself on the chair he had been resting in before Wilson had arrived. Cuddy walked over to the doors and retrieved his cane, offering it to him, but he motioned for her to rest it on the couch next to them. "I'll be leaving now." he said with finality. Wilson felt worse than he could have ever imagined as House forced his way out of the chair and towards the door. It was something that he hadn't quite expected from a man who should have known how to take a hit.

"House," Wilson said as House shuffled out of the room, "I need time." he knew he was speaking in tongues, though. House was in his own little fantasy land. He knew there wasn't much left to be said, so he turned his attention back to Cuddy, who was taking her seat behind the desk. "I've also decided to talk to that friend, uh, Dr. Scanlon? I'll need the information so I can find her." he said softly. Cuddy smiled for a brief moment and wrote something down on a scrap of paper.

"I will call her and let her know to expect a visit from the best damn oncologist that I know." she replied with a soft smile. Wilson took the information. "James," she said as he moved toward the doors, "take care of yourself." The sincerity of her tone let him know that despite the fact that he had just connected a punch with the face of their friend, who undoubtedly deserved it, she wasn't as upset as she seemed to be with him over it. It also allowed him a chance to take the leave without all the red tape and hours of uncomfortable paperwork that would only increase his chance of losing his resolve.

"Yeah." he replied trying to hide the sullen tone that had overtaken him. He knew that he could have talked to her for a few more minutes, but he already felt like he was taking too much of her time. As he left the office, and the hospital, he couldn't help but think of something he had once read. It was in reference to the death of a friend, or a loved one, he wasn't sure. All he could remember were the final words that were written at the end of the page: "the most difficult part of saying hello is knowing that, eventually, you will have to say goodbye."