Well, second installment of The Game. Anyway, do not own Scrubs or the theme song you find in here (I can't do this all on my own, no I know, I'm no Superman) and I do not own the Ron White joke (Hit me hard. I don't want to limp away from this). I do not own House, of course. So, that is that and this might suck, but that is O KAY. Sorry if grammar and things like that suck... it is late and I am not supposed to be up right now. On with the story!
Wilson paced the floor of the police chief' office waiting for word on House; be it where he was or… Wilson ran his hands through his hair and left them behind his head. He did not want to think about the many possibilities. House could have been mugged, he could be lost, he could be stuck somewhere unable to move until he was sober enough to get help.
House could even be dead.
But those were bad thoughts, it was best to keep thinking and hoping for the best. Like a game, keep happy thoughts and your dreams will come true! Whoever hopes the most wins!
Call the game If Only.
After House had hung up, Wilson had gone with the police that had been looking for his friend. But should he even call House a friend? The man was a drug addict, he was the world's biggest jerk, the police were searching for him. Not the best kind of person to be chumming around with. Wilson sat down in one of the chairs in front of the hard wood desk; what had ever happened to his normal friends? Oh yes. House.
"Dr. Wilson?"
Wilson turned at the sound of his name. The police chief was standing in the doorframe holding a file. He stood and answered, "Yes?"
The chief, Bob Thomas, held out his hand and Wilson took it stiffly. Thomas cleared his throat and snorted, "Do you have a photo ID of Dr. House? We will need to get a missing person's report out as soon as possible."
Repulsed though not showing it, Wilson reached into his wallet. There he fished out an old picture of him, House, Cuddy and Stacey standing together in nice clothes in front of a nice restaurant. It was, of course, the only picture of House that he had and it was over five years old. Everyone's face was beaming, except House, though there was a ghost of a smile in his eyes.
"It's a little old, but he hasn't changed much."
Thomas took the picture and slipped it into the file, "Alright Dr. Wilson, you are free to leave. We'll keep you updated."
Wilson thanked him, avoided the handshake, and left. On the way out he flipped his cell out and tried House once again.
"This the guy?"
"Yup."
If only... blue eyes that were aware of their mistake only after the water hit breathed out.
Wilson angrily snapped his phone closed. Where was House? He tossed his phone on his bed. He paced the room quickly and cracked his knuckles. Where was House?
He flopped himself onto his bed miserably and thought deliriously, 'And on my birthday too.'
He sat up again and grabbed the remote, flipping the television on. He furiously clicked through channels, not stopping to see what was on. Woman. Fish. Lava. Stocks. Infomercial. Rosie O'Donnell. He flinched when a gun when off in a drama and quickly changed it again. He stopped for a moment when he heard the theme song to one of his personal favorites.
I can't do this all on my own, no I know, I'm no Superman.
He chuckled to himself; the x-ray behind the show's title was backwards. He lay the button down slowly and allowed himself to laugh at the comedy.
He watched until he was jolted out of his comedy-induced stupor by his cell phone ringing loudly. Hastily he grabbed it and snapped it open, "House?"
He heard a sigh on the other end of the line, "Dr. Wilson, this is Bob Thomas. I'm going to need you to come down to the station… we found him."
Wilson sat silent for a few minutes, then finally was able to choke out, "H-how is he?"
"I'm sorry to inform you that Dr. House was found dead."
The police chief's last words rung in Wilson's ear; they seemed to bounce around in his head, leaving his mind then boomeranging back to remind him of the devastation.
Wilson was unaware that the man on the other end of the line had stopped speaking until he heard his name shouted into his ear. "I'm sorry… what?"
Thomas snorted again and Wilson cringed, "Sir, I'm going to need you to come down and identify the body."
Wilson, mind still reeling, managed a sorry sounding, "Kay."
He flipped the phone closed and sat numbly. This was so… surreal. House couldn't die. House was supposed to be the constant. The one everyone hated was always the one to die last!
Wilson shot up and began to pull at his hair while stalking the room. How could House do this? Didn't he know… "Didn't he know I cared?" Wilson spoke aloud. Helplessly, Wilson let his hands drop to his sides. He walked to the door, grabbing his keys on the way out.
His hand was rested on the doorknob when he whirled around, flinging the cell phone as hard as he could into the far wall, making a crack in the wall and shattering the phone.
'Don't kill the messenger…' he thought as he ripped the door open. Well, the messenger was dead along with the wall.
Wilson jammed his keys into the ignition and, with a flick of his wrist, started the car. He didn't bother to look when he pulled out and he speed out of the parking lot, barely avoiding one of those cursed trucks.
Hit me hard. I don't want to limp away from this.
Wilson pulled into the lot of the police station. This didn't seem real. It was all a dream… maybe a cruel joke. Ha ha! Happy birthday Wilson! We sure got you good.
If only.
After jamming the car into park, Wilson prepared himself to open the door. He was about to pull the handle when, without warning, his head dropped to the steering wheel.
'I'm so tired…'
He remembered nothing after that.
Wilson's head shot up. How long had he been asleep? Was this terrible dream for real? He looked at the clock. Twenty minutes; thirty minutes since hell started.
He felt his face and looked in the rearview mirror. No tears; maybe House really wasn't dead. Surely he would have cried at least a little bit. No tears but a long read indention from the wheel in his forehead.
Wilson slowly opened the door and stepped out, rubbing his head furiously to try and get rid of the mark.
All the way to the door, his footsteps echoed, not real not real not real… But no tears.
All the way to the morgue, not real not real not real… A straight face.
Only when he stepped into the cold room and the drawer which held House slid open with a long as sad and steady reaaaaaaaaaaaal did the first cloud pass over Wilson's eyes and a rain of tears fell.
If only.
So, what do you people think? It was suggested that I continue, so I did. Aren't I great? Anyways, review please!