Title: A Man of Letters
Chapter 3: The Big Black Book … OF WILSON'S DEATH!!!
Wilson woke up without the hangover he had expected. Besides a little grogginess and a slight headache he felt fine. Then he remembered House had spent the night. Wilson wondered if House was up yet and if he had found the journal. He hoped his home hadn't been torn to shreds. He sheepishly opened the door expecting to see feathers from pillows still floating down and overturned furniture blocking the hall. It looked fine. He walked into the living room. Everything was fine. Wilson went into the kitchen and was surprised, but pleased to find all the cutlery still in drawers and the pots in cabinets. Everything seemed to be in place except House. Normally Wilson would have found House still asleep on the couch or watching television. Finally Wilson found a note glued to the refrigerator. He wondered what made House the kind of person who couldn't simply use a post it or refrigerator magnet.
"Couldn't sleep. Went to work." Wilson wondered if House had found the journal and got upset and left or if he hadn't found the journal and left in frustration. He was sure House hadn't just got up and left. Insomnia? Sure. Going to work? Never. He went straight to the bookcase. He quickly found the journal right where he hid it. He put the books back in front of it and decided he had done a better job hiding it than he had thought. When House came back looking for it, and he would keep looking for it, he wanted him to find it where he hadn't already searched. No point making him wonder if he overlooked it. With an extra bounce of superiority in his step, Wilson began his morning ritual.
While House wasn't known for impulse control, he could be patient when he had to be. For example, if he had to patiently wait for the payoff of a joke he could do it. Of course, it helped if he could see the joke unfold and develop a life of its own prior to the payoff. And if the payoff didn't take too long. And if he had other things to keep him busy. So, he assured himself, it wasn't because he lacked self control or was impatient that he paid the cashier in the cafeteria to knock over Wilson's drink splattering all over his pants. He was just bored. The extra 10 he gave her was for managing to get soda on Wilson's shirt and tie, as well. That was just fun. His mocking of Wilson was partially for sport, but all of it was part of "the plan". Stealing Wilson's backup tie was just a coincidence since he did that a week ago. That's when he replaced Wilson's backup to his backup tie with a bolo. Some days things came together so perfectly even House had to wonder if there was some magic pixie putting things in motion after all. House, looking particularly predatory, waited in his office for Wilson. He could almost feel Wilson seething through the wall.
Wilson looked at the bolo tie with the bull riding cowboy on it and for a brief moment wished he was the type of person who could get away with wearing anything stamped "Championship Rodeo" and get away with it. He wondered where House even found things like this. He could just see House wearing it and telling some unsuspecting patient that he hurt his leg "ridin' the bulls". Wilson hated that he found something endearing about that. But, he thought, that won't stop me from killing him with this ugly bolo later.
Then his thoughts went back to the cashier in the cafeteria as he changed his clothes. If he didn't know better he'd think she did that on purpose. No, he decided. She seemed like a nice lady. Her apology could have been a little more sincere. Had she meant it? It was almost like she was laughing at him instead of giggling out of embarrassment for her clumsiness. He pulled out a desk drawer. This was a perfect situation for what House called his Little Black Book of Death. He smirked at the thought. He was tempted to take his bottle of white out and paint a skull and crossbones on the cover. That would make House laugh the next time he took a peek.
Wilson stopped cold. Somebody, and he could just imagine who that somebody was, had scribbled in his book! He flipped though the pages. That somebody had filled several pages. House couldn't be happy just being nosy or mocking him. No, not House. He was probably upset he couldn't find the other journal so he came in early to defile this one. Wilson was going to have plenty to write in that journal when he got home! Another part of Wilson was pleased. Frustrating House meant he scored a point in their endless game. And there was always the chance that he would gain some new insight by what House wrote. Not, he reminded himself, that he didn't already know the man inside out. This was really typical of him. Predictable even. He should have known he wouldn't be able to leave this as Wilson's. Isn't that what he was really saying in the cafeteria? He wanted to share Wilson's "little murder fantasies". That was House code for "look at me me me me". Heaven forbid he should have anything in his life that didn't include House!
Whoa, he thought, let it go. Calm down. You saw it coming. You just didn't think he could write anything that wasn't on a white board. Wilson looked at the first entry. And apparently House couldn't write. Luckily he had learned to read Housian script over the years, but even so it wasn't easy.
She came into the clinic. That was reason enough to want her dead. Then I was in the clinic and that was reason enough to want everybody dead.
Wilson smiled in spite of his anger at House. He could see House scaring the patients in the waiting area into leaving.
She had a stuffy nose. I, the world's greatest diagnostician, had to tell this idiot she had a cold. And, of course, she thought it was more than just a cold because…well, because she was an accountant and accountants have special Jedi skills that keep them from getting things as common as the common cold. It was pretty cool how I figured out she was an accountant…but that's a tale for a different time.
Wilson chuckled. He imagined House sitting at his desk, chewing on his bottom lip and trying to keep on topic. He tried not to think of it as being cute. He did try.
So doctor in training accountant lady points out that I haven't even looked at her nose. Since she pointed it out I decided I should show her my point. I told her to lean her head back and I pulled out an ear currette. I delicately inserted it in her left nostril. I warned her this might hurt a little. I pushed the currette up and through her ethmoid bone into her brain. There was a little more resistance than I expected, but I'd never done this on a live person before. She didn't even have time to scream. The dumb bitch probably would have told me I was killing her wrong. It turned out her cold was fatal.
Wilson found that disturbing not because of the violence, but because he could see House snapping and killing a clinic patient. He reread it. Yep. Doctor in training accountant lady was damn lucky he only killed her in fiction. He wondered if House thought about these things when he was treating the patient. Wilson would replay incidents over and over. He knew House would obsess over things, but he was pretty sure he never gave clinic patients or other people he considered idiots more than a passing thought.
Cuddy called me into her office and, like the obedient professional I am, immediately dropped everything to go see her.
Oh brother!
I respectfully knocked on her door and she screamed for me to enter. The blinds were all drawn. She stood up and told me to lock the door. I was concerned she was ill. I thought she might want a medical exam and was too embarrassed to go through the clinic with her STD. Maybe she decided to try in vitro again. Maybe she needed some hormone shots to help her keep up her female façade.
He wondered if this was based on a real event. Well, real besides the politely going to Cuddy's office and House's contention that she's a she-male or transsexual. And possibly the STD.
She sat on her couch and patted the cushion next to her. "House, Greg, please, sit down," she huffed like an emphysema patient. As a loyal and respectful employee I did as she asked. Maybe that was a naïve thing to do, but I trusted her.
Wilson almost shot coffee out his nose. He bet House stopped being "naïve" around 2 and he was pretty sure he was born without the "trust" gene.
I sat down and she began to paw me like some kind of in heat wildebeest. I tried to explain to her that I respected her as an employee, a colleague even, but she didn't seem to listen. Maybe if I'd been more forceful, more direct…well, there's no point speculating. It just isn't in my character to speak up especially around someone I view as an authority figure - a big figure. I'm so ashamed of myself! I let her take advantage of me. Three times. On the couch, on her desk, and finally up against he book shelf.
Three times? He hadn't mentioned the bucket of Viagra she slipped him.
I was trying to get dressed, sobbing, when she told me how I'd better not tell anybody and even if I did nobody would believe a dirty slut like me.
She's right - nobody would believe this. Where are the details? Wilson was going to explain to House that he needed to build a fuller narrative and he could start by explaining in detail exactly how Cuddy took "advantage" of him. Three times. Wilson shook the image out of his head and mentally filed it for future use. Now where was he? Oh yes. House was a dirty slut. Another image he'd keep for future use.
She wasn't going to let this be a one time thing. It had been too good. She was going to keep me as her plaything. She laughed at me as I stood there feeling worthless and used. As she looked at me all smug and powerful something in me just snapped. I pulled the heavy shelves over on top of her. I could hear Cuddy gurgling and part of me wanted to help her, I really am a compassionate person, but I was too numb to move. She stopped making any sound and I knew she was dead. I cried because even though I was safe from her and nobody would care that she was dead, Cuddy was a human being and I had taken an oath to preserve life, even hers. I looked down at her as I was leaving and couldn't help but think of a simpler time in my life and the Wizard of Oz - another witch who had a heavy wooden object crush her.
Wilson was giggling uncontrollably. He flipped through and noted that House managed to kill Taub, Foreman, 13, Cameron, Carl in accounting - did House have a vendetta against accountants? - and in a giant blood bath everyone who ever entered the hospital was killed except House and "my good friend Jimmy". Wilson was surprised House hadn't killed him. Then again, he had set a precedent by not killing House in this book.
He took the book with him while he did his rounds and was caught reading and smirking several times by a candy striper he'd killed twice already and a nurse he hadn't paid too much attention to until House decapitated her using only piano wire and his "master grasp of physics". He couldn't look at her without turning bright red and pursing his lips to keep quiet. It was apparently an attractive look and she accidentally ran into him several times until her phone number magically appeared in his shirt pocket. He'd have to kill her himself when he got a chance.
Having survived the afternoon, Wilson picked up the bolo tie and headed to House's office. House was playing a video game with his feet propped up on the television. Classic "I'm not waiting to see your reaction pose" pose! Oh Wilson knew him too well!
"I thought I'd stop by to make sure you hadn't been molested or," Wilson made a show of opening the journal and reading, "snapped 13's neck just to see the look on Foreman's face." House favored him with one of his precious smiles.
"I'm good, but I'm guessing a certain cashier might be the worse for wear." Wilson wondered how somebody at House's age, with his facial hair and graying temples, could suddenly look like a mischievous 9 year-old.
"Not yet, but I fear your prognosis is not only dire, but accurate. Oh, and thanks for this," Wilson said throwing the bolo at House. "I'm not really the Country Western type. I was thinking of re-gifting it to Taub." House easily caught the tie and admired it. It was a thing of tacky beauty.
"I suppose you'll use it to garrote me later. Or maybe you could tie it to keep my gag in place." One of Wilson's eyes twitched.
"Gag?" He swallowed as if he was wearing a gag. House continued smiling.
"Just don't touch my ears again. That wasn't funny." House made an exaggerated frown before taking his forefingers to mime drawing a frown over it. Wilson felt his face catch fire and he lost feeling in his hands. He tried to concentrate on breathing, but realized he wasn't. He finally inhaled deeply and felt himself chocking on the exhale.
"You found the book…" Wilson couldn't say anything else. House gave him his most predatory smile.
"Oh yes. I found the book. I might have added an entry or two last night when I couldn't sleep." The mischievous 9 year-old morphed into a 16 year-old sadist right before Wilson's eyes.
"Gotta go," Wilson said as one syllable already half out the door.
"Let me know what you think," House shouted after him. He was thoroughly enjoying this new game.
Wilson didn't like the game House was playing. It was bad enough he had read the journals, but now he wrote in them! What if he found the other journal? Wilson wondered when he developed asthma as he huffed and puffed his way to his car. He popped the trunk and pushed aside his hand crank radio, the 2 gallon jugs of water, and energy bars to lift the flap covering the spare tire. He was in a frenzy, but stopped when he saw the journal was still there. He flipped to the last page. He relaxed. House hadn't found this one. At least it wasn't as bad as he feared. He wasn't going to let that one out of his sight for moment! Still upset that House had read his murder fantasies with House as the victim, he drove a steady 5 miles above the speed limit home. House had driven him to driving like a maniac!
Retrieving the journal, Wilson's mood turned from frenzied to pensive. Why was he letting House get to him like this? He'd spent two days on an emotional rollercoaster and he was the first to say his tracks weren't exactly even lately. Maybe he didn't need to read what House wrote. Wouldn't that drive House crazy, he thought tucking the journal under his arm while he opened a bottle of beer. House would be dying to hear Wilson's reaction and he would say something like "Sorry. Haven't gotten around to it yet." Yeah! He'd say that in his best casual voice and raise his eyebrows just enough to make it look like he's surprised House is asking since he had totally forgot about it!
That plan lasted all of 22 seconds after he finished formulating it. He made a mental note to lecture House about his impulse control issues to make up for his own failings. That always made him feel better. Wilson ran his fingers through his hair. He wasn't sure why he was so concerned about how House planned to kill him - at least not until he phrased it that way. Telling himself he was being unnecessarily neurotic, he opened the book where the yellow ribbon was placed.
I wasn't sure I could go through with it, but I'd dreamed of destroying him for so long I had to take the opportunity - a dream come true, a fantasy realized.
Wilson snorted. House, the psychotic romantic, waxing poet at killing his only friend!
He was asleep at his desk. I could tell he'd been there all night. Who was he trying to impress? Me? I didn't care. Cuddy? She wouldn't notice. He was probably too scared to go home where there was no one to greet him, no lover to hold him, nobody to need him.
That's a bit low, House! So what if I'm sitting here alone reading this! I could have somebody here if I wanted. I have people I could call. Wilson pulled out the phone number the annoying nurse had tucked into his shirt pocket. Right here I have proof people want to be around me!
I'd almost call it a mercy killing, but I felt no mercy for him. I was putting myself out of his misery. It's not that I always hated him. What am I saying? That makes it sound like I once liked him. I'm sure he felt that way. He never was one to pick up subtle clues.
Wilson felt a knot in his stomach. Was this a "subtle clue" from House?
I'm not a cruel man.
Like hell!
I wasn't going to torture him or beat him. He deserved it, but I'm better than that and he wasn't worth the effort.
Yes. St. Gregory the Compassionate.
I went to my office and unlocked the emergency stash of morphine I keep there.
That better be a fiction. I'm searching his office tomorrow.
He didn't move when I entered his office. He was snoring - probably from how his head had fallen back. It was an ugly sound to go with the ugly scene and the uglier man. He should have been a wank stain instead of a person.
Wank stain? Ewww!
He made a particularly loud snuffling kind of snore…
Snuffling?
…and I thought he was going to wake up. God knows it was loud enough to wake the dead. Apparently not loud enough to wake the soon to be dead. I made some gentle shushing sounds and softly told him to stay asleep using my most gentle, calming voice.
Wilson closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. At least when he killed House he didn't make himself sound like Mr. Perfect. Or did he? Crap. He'd have to reread what he had written.
I couldn't risk him waking up so I took the syringe and jabbed it into his jugular. He drowsily opened his eyes. He was drunk! Why did that not surprise me?
It surprises me.
I pushed the entire syringe and followed it with a second. He passed peacefully which seemed ironic to me considering how he lived. I left him there, still looking like he was sleeping, for his team to find. I wondered if they'd even consider murder or simply conclude he had finally OD'd like the pathetic junkie everyone knew he was.
That didn't sound right. His team? Junkie? He reread the story. House was the victim! Did that mean I killed him? Well, not I like me, but I like House as me? Wilson was glad he was still on his first beer or his brain might have boiled away to nothing at that thought. He turned the page to House's next entry.
I hated House.
That cleared up the victim question.
I spent years waiting for him to die. It was uncanny how he continually lived. I can't even count the number of close calls he had, but none of them punched his ticket.
There's an antiquated phrase. Should it be "tear his ticket"? "Scanned his ticket"?
Finally I got tired of watching him slowly kill himself with only glimpses of his demise taunting me. That's when I bought the "Bombs for Dummies" book.
Ok, Wilson admitted. That was kind of funny.
I'm only an oncologist so I'm not, what's the word, useful? Handy? I had to go to House, since he is the smartest person I've ever known, and ask his help. I told him I needed the bomb for Cameron because she wanted to kill Chase. I knew he'd believe that because he knows how annoying that accent can get and he knew I was secretly in love with her.
Ugh! The evil that man's mind could conjure was disturbing!
After building the bomb I told him Cameron wanted it to have a pressure sensor like at the haunted house so when Chase stepped on it BLAM!! He said that was simple enough and said a bunch of stuff about it that I, clearly, couldn't hope to begin to dream to possibly pretend to understand. I took the bomb and trigger to his apartment while Cuddy had him slaving in the Clinic. I only wished I could see it! I imagined he'd walk in, take three steps, and place his cane right on top of the sensor. He'd hear the click and with his laser sharp mind realize in that split second that I had killed him with the very device he so brilliantly fashioned. Then BLAM!!
I guess it's a good thing House is such a genius that he could help poor, stupid me with the tricky stuff!
I waited to hear the news report of an explosion. Nothing. I drove by on the way to work. The building looked fine. How could that be? I parked and ran up to his door. I knocked. He didn't answer. He was probably still asleep. Why be on time when you can be late? I let myself in and carefully avoided the trap. I studied the placement. There was no way he could casually come in and not step on it. I went back to his bedroom and knocked. He didn't answer. I opened the door. No House. I didn't know what to think of that. I heard the front door open. I jogged out and saw House hesitantly looking around from the doorway, before seeing me.
"James, my friend! I was afraid somebody broke in to my humble home!" I questioned where he'd been. He had spent the evening with several nubile, busty, blonde, open-minded young women, the kind who were always throwing themselves at him, and came home to get ready for work. Before I could stop him, he stepped forward onto the sensor. It clicked and he looked at me and smiled. He knew I had killed him, but he couldn't hold it against me. BLAM!!The explosion killed him instantly. Unfortunately for me, the blast sent me backwards and knocked me unconscious. The next thing I remember was the pain. I was burned over 80% of my body. I had held my hands up to the blast and that saved half of my face, but cost me three fingers on my left hand.
Ouch!
If only House hadn't been so skillful maybe the bomb wouldn't have worked so well. I might still be forced to see him every day, but at least I'd be able to see out of two working eyes.
He maimed me! That bastard! That wasn't fair.
My only consolation is dear, Sweet Cameron. She quit her job to take care of me full time. We're never apart. 24 hours a day. Every day. Cameron.
Wilson laughed. He didn't just maim me he made me pray for death!
He turned the page and was surprised to see a stick figure House being hanged by what he guessed was a stick figure him. It was funny in it's pure silliness. Wilson was glad to see House was a horrible artist, but less happy to note the goofy, joyous smile on the face of Stick Wilson in contrast to Stick House's straight line mouth. Stick Wilson was happy and Stick House was resigned. Wilson admonished himself for reading too much into the bad drawings of a disturbed mind.
House wrote in my diary! I am sooooo mad!
It's not a diary! It's a Black Book of Death!
I'm going to run my fingers through my hair until I pull it all out! Then I'm going to go into work tomorrow and try to not say anything, but I won't be able to keep that up for long. I'll end up standing in his office with my arms akimbo waiting for him to apologize. Of course he won't because he doesn't see anything wrong with it. Then he'll change the topic and I'll drop it because that's what always happens. House will never change. I don't know why I didn't give up on him a long time ago. It's not like he appreciates any of the things I do for him like listening to his endless pontifications on human nature, letting him steal my food, keeping him from spending every moment alone, nagging him to get a social life, baiting him into trying new things…
Was House saying he did appreciate him by saying he doesn't appreciate him? That was unexpected. It was nice in a House kind of way. Or was he mocking him for thinking House should appreciate him? Wilson decided to take the less likely grateful House option and move on.
He was relaxed enough now to get another beer and chuckle at his own anxiety. Sure he was disappointed House hadn't killed him, but in another way he was glad. He flipped a few pages. In a way it was charming that House had let him live especially considering the number of pages he'd written. Wilson skimmed through looking for something less bloody to read.
…arterial spray…wiped the bloody soles of my shoes on House's corpse…blood spatter…holding Foreman's decapitated, bloody head aloft in victory…dripping gore…entrails and assorted viscera…
House certainly had a colorful way of writing, Wilson mused. Then he stopped short.
I'd been in love with Greg for so long losing him was like losing a limb.
Oh dear god.
But it was over. He didn't love me. He probably wasn't capable of love. Thinking of all the times he said he did and realizing it was all a lie was what really put me over the edge. I won't lie. Part of what led me to the realization was his unbearable neediness. I was losing valuable time I could have spent obsessing over my hair and shopping for the latest in blow drying technology. Was I suppose to drop everything in my life to help tend to a man who didn't care who it was fluffing his pillow as long as it got fluffed?
So I was a fluffer. Leave it to House.
I had a case once where a manufacturing employee was poisoned by cadmium. He'd lived, but only after a kidney transplant. It had been a miracle he hadn't died. He probably would have if his wife hadn't been so insistent he stay home from work with his "flu" and then bullied him to a doctor when he wasn't getting better. I made a few inquiries under the guise of a new case and found a supply of cadmium dust.
I wasn't sure how much it would take. I didn't want to give him so much that it looked like he was poisoned. Everybody knew he had left the hospital too soon after surgery. I hoped it could be attributed to that. So I started with a very small amount. Like my client, he developed flu like symptoms. That was when I made my mistake.
Shock! I screwed up trying to kill him!
I called James and told him not to come over because Greg had some kind of bug.
Wait. What? I called myself?
That was stupid. From the moment he heard Greg had the infarction, James had been there almost constantly. Now he wasn't just going to be a nuisance. What if he realized Greg didn't just have the flu? Greg I could keep drugged up, but James was another story entirely. James said he'd be right over to make sure Greg was doing okay.
Wilson re-read it. Case, client, martyr - it wasn't him. It was Stacy. He wished House would stop teasing him like that.
I mixed the cadmium in with some warm milk and forced Greg to drink it. If that amount didn't kill the bastard I'd beat him to death with his golf clubs. Either way he wouldn't be using them again.
As soon as James saw him he said he was taking him back to the hospital. I told him Greg had specifically said he didn't want to go to the hospital. He had said he just needed to sleep to regain his strength and he'd be fine. James said he didn't care. He wasn't going to be swayed. While he leaned over Greg I grabbed one of the titanium clubs and swung it hard into James' head. I don't know how many times I hit him, but I remember stopping when I saw bits of his brain flying against the wall. I heard Greg gasping for air. He died moments later with James spread across him. I had no idea what I was going to tell the police.
She killed me! He wrote Stacy killing me and him! Way to switch it up, House! Man!
Wilson stayed up much later than he planned reading and in some cases rereading House's entries. Mostly he laughed. He tried not to over think or analyze what House wrote. It was tough not to, but he didn't want to think about House wanting himself dead or feeling that his death would bring Wilson some kind of joy or relief. He pushed those thoughts aside and focused on this being entertainment not clinical evidence of a death wish. He fell asleep holding the journal with it's shiny, gilded pages and bright yellow ribbon.