Yes, I am continuing it. Yes, I know you want to praise me. By all means, feel free. The credit does go mostly to my reviewers, you guys are awesome! Particularly spncsifreak, who actually brought up the issue of continuing. Warnings: Some dark themes, some mild language, and a little OOC that's completely my fault. It seems an alert Wilson is much harder to write than a drunk House. As always, comments of any kind are not only welcomed, but encouraged.
Disclaimer: No, I don't own the show, the characters, the plot, or a clean pair of socks.
Gregory House was considered a genius. From an early age he'd demonstrated all the classic signs of a fantastic mind. He'd been able to solve complex puzzles, put together unorthodox riddles, find the answers to even the most advanced mathematic equations, and play the piano with incredible efficiency before he reached the tender age of ten.
Yes, there was little doubt that House was a genius, but as those who study the minds of genius' know, their great intellect often comes at a greater price. Social stigma, the inability to function in normal society, a variety of disorders that increased the difficulty of life. These were the symptoms a prodigy often had to endure.
Did Gregory House suffer from these same limitations? It was impossible to tell, simply because while on paper he may have seemed the epitome of a misunderstood mastermind, those who knew the doctor personally could honestly say that he was a jackass by choice.
James Wilson took a small sip of his coffee. Why he was drinking it was debatable, but he preferred to think that it was merely out of necessity rather than comfort. His hands were shaking, but he preferred to ignore that too.
House was in the emergency room at Princeton-Plainsboro. His death was very much a possibility, in fact, it was even likely. They'd pumped large quantities of alcohol and prescription pain killers out of his stomach, but how much had already been dispersed throughout his bloodstream was unknown. Needless to say, the prognosis wasn't encouraging.
They'd called him first, something that shocked the oncologist. House wasn't the type to care about consequences, but it seemed he wasn't completely unaware of his own mortality. He'd had a contact sheet. Explicit instructions for Wilson to follow should a situation such as this occur.
The first was rather easy; don't inform anyone. Not Cuddy or the precious ducklings. Such an order was almost inconsequential, after all, they did work at the very hospital that now housed the cynical man. House must have realized this and as he didn't leave any other instructions on the subject, it was doubtful that he expected the oncologist to go to any undue lengths to keep his colleagues in the dark.
The second instruction was impossibly harder; don't inform the parents. It almost seemed redundant, for even House must have realized that his parents did in fact count as "anyone", but Wilson supposed he could see the reasoning behind it. It was a warning; under no condition are you to inform my family.
On the surface it seemed innocent enough. House would recover just as well and his father would have one less thing to hold over his head. Yes, it defiantly seemed innocent enough, but what if House didn't get better?
The very thought seemed odd; foreign. House was smart; a genius in fact. He seemed able to manipulate, scheme, and deceive his way out of any and all consequences. The fact that he could die, that he could be beaten, that he could . . . loose bothered the cancer specialist in unimaginable ways.
Wilson was purposely oblivious to many things, but reality was not one of them. Statistically speaking, his best friend's death was no longer a simple possibility, but a probability. How then, could he possibly explain himself to Mr. And Mrs. House?
"Yes, I'm terribly sorry Blythe, but you see I had express instructions not to tell you about your son's condition. Yes, that's right, Greg left me a note . . . No, I suppose he didn't want you here, even if he was dying . . . . Yes, I hope to see you at the funeral too . . ."
Wilson could understand and even sympathize with House's desire to avoid his parents, but this was certainly not the time for such childishness. If the diagnostician died with his mother and father oblivious instead of informed due to his own involvement, could he live with the guilt?
No, no, he couldn't. Obviously, he would have to call John and Blythe and hope to God House was too weak to get revenge after this was all over. With that thought in mind, he took a fortifying gulp of his now cooling beverage and made his way to a payphone just down the hall.
The oncologist threw his half-empty paper cup into a garbage can placed conveniently nearby as he picked up the phone with shaking hands . . .
The dial tone seemed especially loud, Wilson noted, ringing in his ears and making his body itch uncomfortably. The doctor rolled his shoulders in hopes of releasing some of the tension as his finger touched the first button. The dial tone disappeared, but it seemed his ears were still ringing. The second number was pressed and still he felt no better.
The situation stunk of betrayal. House had entrusted him with his will while he lay helpless, something that couldn't have been done lightly. Had he honored that trust? Surely not, for here he was disobeying what could be the cynic's last request. Thankfully, Wilson no longer had a choice in the matter as his index finger lightly tapped the last number.
The woman stared at the phone in shock, unsure of what she'd just heard. Gregory House was in the hospital, in severe condition. He could die. At this thought, an involuntary sob was drawn from her throat. He could die . . . .