Wilson stayed late that night, poring over recent papers and reviewing his current cases. He had no reason to head home anyway, really. Bonnie wasn't speaking to him, he had no idea how to get hold of Claire even if he wanted to dip back into that dangerous lifestyle, and the only other person who would have wanted to help him celebrate his promotion was probably long gone by now.

He got back to his building around ten. As he was coming out of the elevator, his neighbor Elisa passed him with her dog. "Can't wait to see it!" she said with a smile.

"I'm sorry?"

"Your apartment. I heard you were having it redecorated." She gave him a cheery wave as she disappeared behind the sliding doors.

Puzzled, he hurried down the hall to his own door and thrust the key into the lock.

He knew that something was off the instant he opened the door, but it wasn't until he flipped the light switch on that his senses could confirm what his intuition had already told him.

His apartment was empty.

Empty, empty. Not a dish left in a cupboard or a sock in a drawer, empty. Wilson wandered around for a while, half-convinced that at some point he would wake up from an especially weird dream and bark his shins on a suddenly visible coffee table, but at last he had to acknowledge that all of his stuff was, indeed, gone.

He went looking for House.

He began his search back at the hotel where House was supposedly staying. The bartender denied knowing where "Tony" was, but when Wilson broke away from him and headed for the stairs, he found the older man sitting on the fourth step, waiting for him. House looked pleased – with himself or with Wilson, he couldn't tell.

"Know why I took your stuff? To show you I could."

"It's my stuff," Wilson protested.

"Your stuff, huh?" House stood up, still smiling faintly. "Like your promotion? Like Claire?" He stepped closer, his voice low, insistent. "You wouldn't have gotten any of that if it wasn't for me."

Wilson opened his mouth, then closed it again, unable to argue. "Fine." He raised his hand to rub the back of his neck, feeling a huge headache coming on. "It's yours. Do whatever you want."

House cocked his head. "So the stuff makes us even?"

"Yeah," Wilson said, suddenly exhausted. "The stuff makes us even."

He could feel House's thoughtful gaze boring into his back as he walked away.

Wilson spent the night at the same hotel where he'd spent so many nights after Sam divorced him. Although he ached for sleep, it eluded him. Around 5 am he finally gave it up as a lost cause and went to work, feeling grateful for his foresight in always having a spare set of clothes in the car.

Towards the end of the afternoon, the department secretary came into the clinic to tell him he had a call, supposedly urgent. He couldn't deny feeling just the faintest hint of exhilaration when the familiar voice rasped in his ear, "Hey. Remember me?"

"House," he acknowledged in a low voice, looking around. "What do you want?"

"Well… I got rid of your stuff, like you said." Wilson rolled his eyes, but House continued, "There were some things that weren't much use to anyone else – some files, photographs, your passport. I'm leaving them in a box for you at the foot of the Clock Tower in Wellesley."

"Oh, well that's convenient," Wilson sneered before he could stop himself. It would take him hours to get there in rush hour traffic. He might as well wait until tonight.

He could almost see House shrug on the other end of the line. "Take it or leave it. It's on my way out of town." A pause, which, Wilson realized later, had been for effect. "Oh, you'll find your wallet in there, too. I lifted it in the bar that night in Nola. Think your Diner Club card's over the limit, though."

Wilson slammed the receiver down, so surprised and angry that he couldn't trust himself to speak.

The box was right where House had said he'd leave it, wallet and all. No cash, of course. Still feeling stunned, Wilson drove back into Boston on autopilot, and was surprised and chagrined to discover that he'd arrived back at his apartment complex. Suppressing a sigh, he got out of the car and hoisted the box under his arm. Might as well drop it off inside before heading back to the hotel for the night.

His apartment, however, was no longer bare.

His home video camera was back in the living room, aimed down the hall towards his bedroom and bath. His television set loomed next to the doorway, screen static buzzing in what he could only interpret as a menacing way. Almost mesmerized, Wilson set the box down on the floor near the front door and walked over to the entertainment center. He picked up the unlabeled video cassette lying on top of the television, hefted it experimentally in his hand, and then slid it into the slot of the VHS, which swallowed it with a sly mechanical slurp.

The screen cleared to reveal House slouched against the doorframe of the hall, a scene presumably shot with Wilson's own camera. He was wearing low-slung jeans and one of Wilson's pinstriped shirts, half-unbuttoned so that his flat belly was bare. "Wilson," he said, looking straight into the camera, "I want you to remember one thing. You asked for this."

House's head turned at the sound of a sharp knock at the door; it all felt so immediate that Wilson turned to look, too, but of course no one was there now. House grinned at him. "Be right back." He sauntered offscreen. Wilson could hear the door opening, low voices murmuring in the background. Then a figure moved back into frame, but it wasn't House.

It was Claire.

House, however, was right behind her. "He's in the bedroom," he said smoothly, and Claire smiled at him.

"Great," she said, "I can't wait," and she started striding eagerly down the hall. House turned back to the camera and winked, then followed her. The bedroom door clicked shut behind them.

That was when Wilson noticed the dark smear on the white trim of the doorframe, half-hidden by the television set.

He ran.

The bedroom door was locked. Wilson didn't stop to think; behind him, bloodcurdling screams were blaring from the tv. He jiggled the knob, then thrust his shoulder against the door, more and more frantic to get inside, even as he realized that the videotape was evidence enough that he was far too late.

At last one especially vicious kick broke the latch and sent the door swinging open into the room. Beyond it, on the floor, was a body. Dark droplets were scattered everywhere, and the familiar dark hair was matted with drying blood. Wilson dropped to his knees and gagged, so overcome with horror that he only noticed the stained golf club when the shaft bit into his hand.

The screams from the living room had stopped. Wilson wiped his mouth on his sleeve and staggered back out into the hall. He was just in time to see the image of House swaggering towards the camera, his torso spattered with blood. The older man grabbed the side of the doorframe to strike a pose, his glove leaving a bright red streak when he straightened. And then he started laughing. It was high, uncontrolled, mirthful, and strangely innocent. Wilson almost began gagging again.

That was when he heard the whistle, and every hair suddenly stood on end.

House, in the flesh, stepped out of the shadows of the kitchen behind him, still whistling. He had probably been standing there all along, watching his own performance as well as Wilson's reaction.

Wilson was rooted to the spot in terror and could only watch wordlessly as his former friend approached, his blue eyes blank, his handsome face unreadable.

"You thought we were even before," House said. "Now we're even."

Then he broke into a huge grin, and his gaze traveled past Wilson's shoulder into the hall behind him.

Wilson looked back and nearly fell over. Walking towards them was Claire, looking none the worse for wear except for the sticky hair and unusual pallor. When she reached the living room, House held up his hand, and they gave each other an exuberant high five, then grinned over at Wilson.

Who whispered, "Jesus Christ," his legs clearly in danger of collapsing under him. He wondered whether he had wet his pants; he was too numb from shock to tell.

"Oh, Wilson," House chuckled. "You really thought I would have killed her?"

"I didn't know what to think! You, you got me drunk, got me high, made me cheat on my fiancée, egged me on while I beat up one of my colleagues…"

House took a step forward, suddenly sober. "I never made you do anything that wasn't in you already. People are such hypocrites. They go through their whole lives to the day they die saying that they're innocent, but they're not innocent. I showed you that!"

Wilson stared back at him, speechless. Damn the man, he couldn't argue with him. As desperately as he'd wanted to be Dr. James Evan Wilson, boy wonder oncologist, with his shiny, perfect, predictable life, that wasn't who he was. Or at least, it wasn't all he was.

And he had to admit that, insane as the last few days had been, he hadn't felt so alive, so much himself, for as long as he could remember. House had surprised him, over and over again. And he'd had fun.

Although that fun had come with a steep price. No matter which way he tried to rationalize it, there was no excuse for what he and House had done to Patterson. None.

As if reading his mind, House smirked. "Besides," he said, "you didn't beat up anyone. You were passed out in the car the whole time. I just saw the Merc that belongs to Howard Wasserman's wife parked in Patterson's driveway and accused him of screwing her while his own wife was out of town." He nodded towards Wilson's scabbed knuckles. "I dragged your hand on the pavement to fuck with you."

"To… fuck with me?"

"Yeah," House chortled. "I still can't believe you fell for that."

Without any warning, Wilson's fist suddenly flew out and slammed into House's face.

They both regretted this almost immediately, Wilson spinning around and clamping down on his freshly reopened and acutely painful scars with his uninjured hand while House's skinny ass landed on the carpet and bounced a couple of times. Somewhere in the ensuing bellowing and confusion, Claire quietly made her escape.

At last Wilson stalked over, flexing his fingers, and glared down at House, whose cheekbone was already beginning to darken. "Now we're even."

"Deal," House said, smiling, and held out a hand, allowing Wilson to help haul him to his feet. "Hey, you hungry?"

"Well, thanks to someone, I don't have a crumb of food in the place."

House began unbuttoning his faux-bloodstained shirt. "Yeah, we'll go pick up the rest of your stuff from storage in the morning. In the meantime, I've heard about a good new vegetarian place in Cambridge."

"Screw that," Wilson said fervently. "I want a steak."

THE END :D