III

She'd slept like the dead. And he'd slept like the dead because he was high on morphine. And she'd groaned and risen to the morning and he'd groaned a day later and covered his face with his hands.

The aftercare nurse had brought him a letter and before he could see it, before he could make sense of his surroundings and dare to open his eyes and survey the damage, he'd smelt her perfume and held the unopened envelope to the side of his burning face.

"Cameron."

Wilson rushed down the hall to where she waited for the elevator.

Other people joined them and pushed them to the back corner.

"Ground floor," Wilson said above the low chatter.

Cameron's arm brushed his as she moved further into the corner. She struggled to collect her thoughts around Wilson sometimes. There was just so much to say. His furrowed brow told a story of how House was recovering but she wanted to, needed to, hear the words. She wanted to feel how House felt. Know how much it hurt. Suffer with him. Understand him.

"He read your letter."

Wilson stepped out before Cameron and she lost him in the exodus. Had he really said it? Was it just her mind saying what she needed to hear most of all?

She was ashamed and embarrassed. She drank the thoughts away that night. Stupid girl. Writing him a letter. How old was she? How selfish was she? He was recovering from a major operation. He'd lost a limb. He didn't need her and her stupid needs invading his thoughts.

And then she shivered and let her head drop to the table. Maybe he hadn't read it. Maybe he'd torn it up and threw it away. Maybe he'd laughed about her. Maybe nothing would ever be the same. Scratch maybe. Nothing would definitely ever be the same.

She picked up her cell phone and dialled a number. She didn't expect anyone to answer.

"Hi."

"Hi, James." She cleared her throat. Surprised and relieved to hear his voice. "What you said about House…um, that letter…it was…"

She didn't know what to say. Confess that it was a mistake. All of it? Which bit? The writing it part or the detail contained within? Why was this so difficult? Wilson would listen. He would understand.

"I just meant…" She began again and cleared her throat, "I was in a bad place when I sent that and I know he's in a bad place but if you could just maybe explain to him…"

"He's kind of down." Wilson whispered back. "I'm at his place. He's having all of these nightmares and he's really in no fit state to…"

"I'm sorry," Her voice shook. "I'm an idiot. Please forgive me."

And then she was crying. Sobbing uncontrollably down the phone line. Wishing she'd never sent that damn letter. Wishing that she was where Wilson was. Wishing that House trusted her like he trusted Wilson.

"Do you want to speak to him?" Wilson asked suddenly.

Maybe it was part of Wilson's 10-step recovery programme but Cameron couldn't think of anything worse. Speaking to him. Crying down the phone. Saying how brave and beautiful he was and in return him telling her that she was a drunken fool who shouldn't send letters out whilst inebriated. It wasn't a conversation she could handle.

She let the phone fall to the ground and it knocked some papers off the table. She bent to pick them up and gasped as her head started to swim.

She fumbled around amongst the papers and picked out a stapled document. She put her empty glass down on top of it and wandered away into her bedroom, leaving the glass to magnify the lines of typeface: "Renewal of contract. Signature required here."