Chapter 8: It's Somethin You Did

Wilson had never particularly considered himself an optimist. As the head of PPTH's oncology department he had, over the years, lost his fair share of patients to cancer. Like the last glowing embers of a dying fire, their names and faces were burned into his memory and would summon themselves to his recollections in the long hours of his sleepless nights. In James Wilson's line of work, optimism therefore was a luxury he could scarcely afford.

Neither could that more positive outlook be applied to his personal life. He'd been divorced three times and suffered the failure of enumerable other romantic relationships including the recent rekindling and subsequent collapse of his relations with his first ex-wife Sam (how stupid was that?).

In point of fact, James Wilson was much more of a pragmatist. He occasionally considered calling himself a cynic but knew that description must always belong exclusively to his best friend Gregory House. For no one in Wilson's circle of extensive knowledge had ever held a candle to House's particular brand of intransigent cynicism.

Yet, who could blame him? While Wilson had been spared the sordid details, he felt absolutely certain that House's childhood, though still shrouded in shadow, had been extremely difficult, if not downright brutal. And from the infarction that caused the loss of mobility in his right leg, simultaneously costing him Stacey, the woman who may have been the love of his life, up to more recent tragic events it seemed that nearly everything in House's life had continually taken a turn for the worse if not the catastrophic.

As far as the last several years were concerned, House's life had hit an all time low. His steady, downhill progression toward madness, death or both at times seemed to be of his own design while at others, simply the preference of cruel Fate. At the same time, Wilson had grown increasingly uncomfortable with the part he'd played in bringing about even greater levels of pain and despair to House's already overburdened psyche.

He could no longer say with definitive clarity whether his own motives had been pure or not. In fact, in his heart of hearts, Wilson knew that his dealings with House had been patently far from fair and above board and perhaps he had meddled in his best friend's life once too often for the good of either them.

Wilson wanted some personal time with Sam early in their attempt at reconciliation. Consequently, he had pushed House out of the condo the two men had been sharing. Falling only mere months after House's detox from Vicodin and subsequent release from Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital, these forced changes had occurred too fast, too early and way too soon for House to be living back on his own.

Added to that, the increased time spent with Sam meant a huge decrease in available time to spend with House. Wilson had, for all intents and purposes, cast House adrift and alone at possibly the most vulnerable time of his entire life.

At the same time as he pushed House away, he was also pushing House and Cuddy together. Only now in hindsight could Wilson grasp the idea that he'd been uncharacteristically optimistic in thinking that everything would all work out alright.

House had been too unstable, too fresh from his battles with Vicodin and his other innumerable demons to be encouraged into participating in any kind of romantic entanglement, particularly one which involved his controlling, pitiless boss.

But Wilson had assumed that romance might be good for the both of them. Perhaps Cuddy could somehow smooth House's rougher edges and with her daughter, provide the stabilization House needed. And Cuddy herself could benefit from House's unremitting passion, loyalty and his deeply-felt devotion and love.

How wrong he had been.

Wilson had not seen that Cuddy's feelings for House had not been anywhere near mutual. While some part of him may have recognized that she did not love House as much as he loved her, Wilson had been completely blindsided by the discovery that she did not, in fact love House at all.

House to her had apparently been merely a pet project, a foundation upon which she might construct her own personal bronze statue of love, only after tearing down the man who stood there to begin with. Cuddy needed to control House in every facet of his life. She wanted to force him to be her genius show pony at work, parading him around to donors in order to wring from them their generous contributions. In their personal life, House was required to satisfy her every whim, in and out of the bedroom as well as be the perfect husband to her and perfect father to Rachel.

But House was far from perfect.

His love for Cuddy kept him jumping through her flaming hoops for quite awhile however, though it was only a matter of time before he tripped and set himself and perhaps those around him ablaze.

How had Wilson been so wrong footed? How could he have not seen how selfish and malicious Cuddy truly was?

And now this latest nail in House's coffin. He had gone to make his peace with Cuddy and fate had once again laid him low.

Even after risking his life and losing his leg to save her daughter, Cuddy's heart remained unmoved. She would not see House, would not even talk to him over the phone. And Wilson felt that this, more than anything else would be the ruination of his best friend's life.

Just the same, Wilson found himself holding onto a small flame of optimism that something he'd said to Cuddy had gotten through to her. Or maybe after she had given herself enough time to think about all that had happened she would come around to a better, more forgiving outlook and might even come by to see House to thank him or at least make peace with him.

It was quite a stretch yet he still found himself musing about the possibility and how that outcome would go a long way to heal not only his best friend's wounded heart, but allow Cuddy to face some of her own selfish demons as well. And Wilson remained convinced it was the only way either one of them could move forward with their lives.

This uncharacteristic optimism was why he continued to have hope. And it was also why he told House's nursing staff to keep him informed of any visitors to his best friend's room.

That was why he got the phone call that brought him down to House's floor far in advance of his usual visiting time.

The elevator doors opened and Wilson walked right over to the nurses' station, a slight smile on his handsome face.

"Dr. Wilson," the young and Wilson also noticed, very pretty blonde new nurse said, "You've already missed them. They left just a little while ago."

Wilson sighed. "I was afraid I might miss them. But I was with a patient so I couldn't come down right when you paged me. You said 'they?'" Wilson felt a thrill of hope surge through him.

"Yes. There was an older woman and a little girl."

At this remark Wilson frowned, unable to hide his disappointment. Lisa Cuddy could be described in many ways but 'older' wasn't usually the first adjective that came to mind. "Oh. What did they look like?"

"It was an older woman, with a cane. And a little girl. Sweet-looking little girl but her language left something to be desired. What I heard anyway."

Another nurse listening in on the conversation from several feet away sidled over. "It was Dr. Cuddy's mother and daughter Dr. Wilson. I recognized them both."

Wilson's expression brightened a little. "You're sure?"

"Oh yes. Though she's a lot bigger, I recognized Dr. Cuddy's daughter almost right away. And I remember her mother because I was one of the nurses on shift when she was admitted here about two years ago."

"Arlene does have a way of making a lasting impression."

"She does that," the second nurse said as she chuckled ruefully. She turned her attention to the new nurse. "Emily, it looks like those monitors in Dr. House's room have come unplugged again. Why don't you go in there and reconnect them?"

"Yeah I know. I'll get to them in a minute," Emily replied.

Wilson had picked up a nearby clipboard, pretending to casually check its contents while in reality, working up the right words to ask Emily to dinner. This latest exchange however made him turn to look at both nurses. "When did the monitors go off in Dr. House's room?" he queried, raising an eyebrow as an intuitive shiver ran down his spine.

"Oh there's nothing to worry about Dr. Wilson. They've been malfunctioning several times a day recently. Dr. House says he never knows how they get turned off. He must unplug them when he rolls over in his sleep I guess."

"WHEN did they shut down? WHEN?"

Emily was slightly shaken by the harsher tone in Wilson's voice. "I guess just after his visitors left. I didn't really notice."

But Wilson was already running in the direction of House's room before she'd even finished answering.

As he reached the doorway, the sight that met his eyes was the stuff of some of his worst nightmares, the realization of his greatest fear. There, before his very eyes, House was in full blown seizure, his eyes rolling back in his head, his spine arching away from the mattress and flecks of foam and vomit in the corners of his mouth.

"Call a code!" Wilson yelled at Emily and the rest of the nurses, three of whom were already racing down the hallway toward House's room.