House flinched as the door to the motel room opened, letting in a stream of late afternoon sunlight. Wilson had only been gone for a few minutes – had just stepped out to his car to get his cell phone – but in that time, House had frantically searched for some means of escape. He despaired that he had found none, although he'd had little time, because now he knew:

If Wilson had his way, neither of them would leave this room alive.

"Wilson," House attempted in a hoarse, desperate voice, feeling that at this point he had little left to lose. "Don't. No. You… you don't have to do this…"

When Wilson turned his attention toward him, House immediately flinched, expecting the punishment he'd received any time he'd spoken or moved without permission for the last few months; but the look Wilson gave him was sympathetic and sad. His voice was gentle and patient as he argued softly.

"Yes, House. I do." He took the gun from the pocket of his pants, turning it over in his hands in a pensive way. "It's the only way I can finally stop making things worse for us and actually protect you from any future harm… or suffering… or… just everything, House. It's the ultimate answer."

"No, Wilson, you're wrong," House insisted in a cautiously soft voice that trembled with dread. "This isn't a solution at all. You're just speeding up the process and skipping all the good parts along with the bad…"

"What good parts, House?" Wilson snapped, his voice rising with emotion, the gun waving wildly, and House drew back against the wall, closing his eyes and bracing himself for the shot. "The constant pain? Your vicodin addiction? The never-ending fear and confusion and uncertainty of never knowing when you're going to come home to find that your best friend has accidentally – or not accidentally – killed himself?"

"So your answer is to kill me first?" House's voice was barely audible, his eyes still closed, his heart racing in dreadful anticipation of what could very well be a fatal consequence to his persisting objections. "If you do it – then you don't have to wait around wondering if it's gonna happen? How is that any better?"

"It's better because I don't 'wonder', House," Wilson explained, a sort of defeat in his voice as he sat down on the end of the bed nearest his friend. "I know. There's this… deep down knowledge inside that one of these days… one of those things will happen. You'll overdose on Vicodin, or you'll be driving instead of riding the bus, or something… and I'll lose you." He was quiet for a moment before adding in a chillingly soft voice, "At least this way, I don't have to lose you."

"Life is better than the alternative, Wilson, no matter how crappy it is!" House insisted. "Living with the chance that maybe someday down the road we might do something stupid and die is pretty much the human condition! And it's got to be better than the certainty of death." He paused, his voice softening as he added with earnest sincerity, "I know my life's not all that great, Wilson. Neither is yours. But it's got to be better than nothing. And… I at least wanna have the chance to find out. I want to live."

Wilson let out a harsh laugh filled with bitter sarcasm, throwing his hands in the air in a gesture of defeat, and House flinched as the gun moved with his hand.

"Now you tell me!" Wilson sneered, frustration creeping back into his tone. "When did you decide that, House? Huh? Sometime between the overdose and the bus accident?"

House hesitated, but felt the need to challenge Wilson's faulty logic. "That… that accident wasn't my…"

His words broke off in a gasp of alarm as Wilson swiftly crouched in front of him, his free hand closing firmly around the scar on House's thigh. He tried to pull away, but Wilson held him in place, though keeping his grip loose enough that it wasn't quite painful. His voice was frighteningly soft and sympathetic as he continued, his face inches from House's.

"You want to keep going the way you were? In pain? Constantly miserable? Having to get drunk or high just to feel normal for a little while? Just to not feel the misery your life was?" He paused, his grip on House's thigh easing and becoming a caress, his voice lowering to an almost seductive whisper. "Wouldn't it be so much easier just to let it all slip away? For it all to just be over?"

For the last several years of his life, House had needed to consciously remind himself of the things for which he continued to go on.

Well… thing, really.

Still, when it came down to it, he had never been one to entertain a death wish. When given the choice between life or death, no matter how miserable his had become, House would always choose life. Something was better than nothing. It was a simple fact of reality that he had always believed and lived by.

But now, the choice was being wrenched from his hands, no longer in any way within his control – and he knew better than to think that he could reason with Wilson at this point.

He struggled to maintain control, but could feel the burn of despairing tears behind his eyes, heard the tremor of pleading defeat in his voice. "Wilson… don't. Please don't…" He was reduced to the last option in his meager arsenal – outright pleading for his very life, hoping against hope that Wilson's lingering affection for House would convince him to spare his life.

Wilson raised a gentle hand to stroke across House's cheek in a tender gesture, his voice quiet and heavy with emotion. "Oh, House," he whispered. "Don't you see? I have to – for you."

House shuddered, his skin crawling where Wilson touched him. Wilson's face fell at his reaction, and he withdrew his hand, but remained close, his tone hushed and intimate as he went on.

"Don't be scared, House. It's gonna be okay," he reassured him gently. "Don't worry. I promise, it won't hurt a bit. One second you'll be here… the next, you won't. It won't hurt when I do it." He was quiet for a moment as he rose to his feet, drawing back the hammer of the pistol in his hand. "And then…" he mused softly, staring down at the weapon. "… it won't hurt at all anymore."

*****************************

Cuddy had gone from Wilson's house immediately to the police station, hoping to hear about it as soon as House and Wilson were found. Hours had passed without any word, but still she lingered in the waiting area, pacing anxiously back and forth.

She took her cell phone out every now and then, considering placing a call to let someone else know what was going on. She had claimed a personal emergency at work, without going into any details at all; but she thought about letting some member of House's old team know – just to have someone else there who cared about House's well-being.

She would have called his mother, but she thought it best to wait until they knew what was going to happen first. If House was going to be rescued safe and sound, then there was no reason to make the poor woman suffer with worry in the mean time. If he wasn't…

Well, if he wasn't, then Blythe House would be suffering soon enough.

Several times Cuddy was advised by the police officers to just go home, that they'd call her if there was any news; but she couldn't bring herself to go about her daily routine as if nothing was wrong, when House's life was in danger.

She still couldn't wrap her mind around the reality of who it was that was placing his life in danger.

How could I have never seen this in Wilson? Was it there all the time? Or has he just recently become this… this terrifying, psychotic monster? How did this happen? How long has it been going on – since House first left the hospital? How did Wilson manage to hide it for all these months?

There were no answers for the questions swirling through her mind. She felt sick with fear, having no idea what to expect from Wilson in this unfamiliar state. He had fled his home, which meant that he knew he had been found out, and was probably desperate and very dangerous – none of which boded well for House.

Judging by the way Wilson was acting when I last saw him… God, he was going to kill me! This can't be happening… how can this be real?

She suddenly felt overwhelmed, exhausted, as if the very task of trying to make all of this make sense was simply too much for her mind to take on. She sat down in one of the chairs that lined the wall, resting her head in her hands.

She had barely sat down when the door leading into the lobby area opened, and one of the officers who'd been working House's case entered the room, looking flustered and excited. Cuddy automatically rose to her feet, giving him an anxious, expectant look. He rewarded her with a tentative smile.

"We think we've found them."

"Where?"

"In a small town in Connecticut, at a roadside motel. Someone saw their pictures on the news and says they saw them, checking into one of their motel rooms earlier today. They just now saw the news report, but Wilson's car is still parked outside the room. We've already contacted the local authorities, and we're sending a couple of guys, but they're waiting for the FBI to show up before they make a move."

"FBI?" Cuddy shook her head, bewildered. "Why…?"

"Wilson took Dr. House across state lines. That makes this a federal case of kidnapping." He paused, moving closer to her, his tone softening with understanding. "Considering how dangerous Wilson seems to be, that can only be a good thing."

"Oh, God," Cuddy whispered, raising a hand to cover her face as the reminder of the danger House was in made her throat constrict and her stomach quake. "Oh, no…"

"No, no, this is a good thing," the officer reminded her. "We've found them. Just a few hours ago, Dr. House was all right, and help is on its way to him. We've found him, and we're going to get to them in time."

Cuddy could only hope that he was right.

She picked up her purse from the seat beside her, shouldering it and heading for the door. She knew better than to think she'd do anything but get in the way at the actual scene of the confrontation that was sure to take place; but at the very least she could go to the local police station in the area and be there when House was rescued.

She hadn't even reached her car yet when her cell phone rang. She reached into her purse and took it out, glancing distractedly at the screen. She froze in her tracks, staring in disbelief at the screen, stunned by the name that flashed across it.

James Wilson