another step into House's deepening misery... the last… because maybe it needs to get worse before it can get better.
so, bear with me…

** CHAPTER 51 **

It'd taken Wilson almost half an hour to find it, but he had! He had done some research on the Internet, made some phone calls to confirm and now he could match up the name with a place: Dr. Bill Russell – Massachusetts General – Boston.

He needed to go tell House right away, tell him that they had a lead. All the way while he drove to House's place, he couldn't help but feel excitement and relief for his friend. Yes, House was a mean bastard sometimes, but he deserved to be happy, too, like any other man. And in his own, maybe wrong way, he really loved her. And he needed her. Just as much as she needed him. Wilson had no doubt about that now.

After having parked his car in front of House's building, he practically ran to his door and knocked energetically, impatiently hopping up and down at the threshold. He waited for a short while, wondering how he was going to tell him.

Ok, what the hell was he doing? Wilson knocked again, louder and strained his ear to the sound coming from behind the door, but he could only hear silence. A heavy, odd, nerve-racking silence. He tried to open the door and found it locked but prompted by an awkward feeling he stretched his hand above the door frame and took the spare key to open.

He stepped inside the apartment and found the living room quiet and empty. He cautiously called out his friend's name, and walked inside, heading toward the bathroom.

"House, are you in there?" he called, still carefully pacing as he arrived at the end of the hallway. "You wouldn't believe what-"

He stopped, dead in his tracks, when he saw the silhouette lying on the bedroom floor.

It took him less than a second during which he just stayed petrified by fear, unable to make a single move, but then he leaped to his friend and instantly crouched next to him. There was vomit on the floor. Vomit and shards. But what took Wilson's breath away was the blood. There was blood on the floor.

"House? … House!" He frantically shook the inanimate body, while simultaneously trying to locate where the blood was coming from.

And then he saw the cut. Near the wrist of the right hand. House's fist was clenched, and he seized it to evaluate how bad it was. That was when, most unexpectedly, House abruptly jerked out of unconsciousness and threw his fist in the air to free his hand, almost hitting Wilson in the jaw in the process.

"DON'T TOUCH ME!" he shouted and immediately brought his left hand to his head.

"Oh my God! What happened?" Wilson said, still in shock.

"I tripped over, and I fell," House mumbled, laboriously struggling to sit up.

He looked at his injured hand and opened his fist then glanced at his palm. Wilson couldn't see what was in there that House was holding so tightly but he saw him put it inside his pocket and when he took his hand out, Wilson seized it decisively and brought it up to study the wound.

"Let me have a look-" he started, but House forcefully pulled his hand away.

"It's nothing! ... I cut myself when I fell."

"It looks bad. You may need stitches. There's a lot of blood-"

"That's nothing!" House repeated, yelling, and he took a look at the cut himself. "It's superficial. Dammit, why do you need to overreact like a sissy every time? I really wonder how you've managed to stay a doctor all these years if you can't even stand the sight of blood!"

Wilson set his lips and took a deep breath, stomaching the sarcastic comment. Another one. Just hurled like that for no reason, just because House was a stupid jerk who didn't know how to deal with his hurt feelings.

Wilson looked at him with bitterness and House instantly acknowledged that he had crossed a line. Guilt spread across his features, but that was just a fleeting moment and soon he displayed a smug face again. He pushed himself up on his non-injured hand to try and stand up.

Wilson moved back to let him grab a hold of his cane and when he saw him wince, he instantaneously reached out his hand and seized his arm to steady him and help him stand up. House clenched his jaw and stared at Wilson's hand in silent. The oncologist promptly helped him back to his feet and let go of his grab. They gave each other a challenging look but House caved first and lowered his eyes, shamefaced.

"Now, will you at least let me put a bandage on that wound, or is this leaving-blood-stains all over the place part of your new decoration plan?"

House smirked and looked down at his feet. He bit his lip when he saw the mess that was there: Puke, broken glass, blood, dissolved in the small puddle of Bourbon that had spilt when the bottle had broken … And he felt ashamed.

"Fine! Just play the nurse if you want!" he snarled, in an attempt to deflect. "But I'm warning you, I'm not letting you undress me!"

And then, he headed to his bathroom with a heavy limp.

Wilson shook his head and followed him there. House sat on the bathtub's edge and Wilson rummaged into the drawers to find some alcohol and bandages. He turned around to face House who docilely gave him his hand. Wilson took it and evaluated the edges of the cut.

It was near the hollow of the wrist, and it was pretty large and certainly deeper than House would have admitted but most of the blood seemed to have coagulated. There was just a slight remaining drip, apparently only caused when pressure was put on the cut. Wilson soaked a compress with alcohol and put it on House's wrist.

"It might sting a little," he warned, purposely pressing really hard on the wound.

House winced and glared at him. He knew that was payback for the fear he'd caused his friend, and he endured the burning sensation without a word. Wilson then wrapped his wrist in a bandage, and they stayed in the bathroom for a short while. After a silent moment, Wilson sighed, and looked into his friend's eyes with a concerned face. House arched his eyebrows in mock annoyance.

"House," Wilson treaded cautiously, "did you really cut yourself by accident?"

House couldn't suppress the upset puff that escaped his mouth. He felt appalled by what was implied by Wilson's words.

"Are you saying you actually think I cut myself on purpose? Wait, … you think I tried to-"

Wilson lowered his eyes in embarrassment.

"I'm not saying you tried to kill yourself!" he denied, defending himself. "But cutting yourself on purpose is something you've done already!"

"Well, sorry to disappoint you Jimmy boy," House answered embittered. "Today's not the day you'll find me dead, drenched in my own blood. This is just a stupid cut I made when l fell on a piece of broken glass."

Wilson took a deep breath to try and stomach House's mean sarcasm with indifference. He stood in front of him and just nodded, acknowledging how words could be useless sometimes. All of a sudden, House swayed a little and he brought his hand to his head.

"What?" Wilson asked worried. "Do you feel dizzy? You hit your head when you fell, maybe you have-"

House shot him a glare.

"No, you idiot!" he said angrily, and he averted his eyes, feeling a bit ill-at-ease. "My head spins, that's all."

Wilson shook his head in dismay.

"Yes, of course it does!" He puffed. "How many drinks did you have? Or shall I say how much alcohol did it take you to swallow half your bottle of pills?"

House sustained Wilson's stare but remained silent.

"God, House, look at you! It's barely two in the afternoon and I find you passed out in your own puke! You can never stop, can you?" He looked at him with both sadness and resentment. "How many pills have you taken?"

"I'm in pain!" House snapped aggressively.

"Yeah, you're in pain. I can see that. But mixing Vicodin and Bourbon is not the solution because what you feel has nothing to do with physical pain and you perfectly know that!"

"Really?" House snarled. "And how do you know? Did you have one piece of your thigh cut off? Did you have a chunk of your muscle removed? Do you know what it does to constantly feel like someone is stabbing your leg with a butcher's knife?"

"No, I don't. But I know how it feels to lose someone you love," Wilson shot back sternly.

"Ha-ha-haa," House theatrically let out a sardonic laugh, to which the specific acoustic of the bathroom gave a strange echo. "Ladies and Gentlemen, please Welcome Dr. James Wilson, devoted oncologist and psychoanalyst on his spare time."

"Don't deflect, House. Seriously, not this time. You can't pretend you're not affected by what Cuddy did-"

"SHUT UP!" House barked. "I don't need a fucking shrink to psychoanalyze me and tell me what affects me and what doesn't!"

"She's gone."

"Yeah, thank you, I've noticed that already!"

"Why aren't you looking for her?" Wilson challenged.

House puffed spitefully.

"I don't know where she is!"

"You don't know, or you don't want to know?"

"What difference does that make anyway?"

"I know something that could help you find her."

Wilson's confession visibly took House off guard, and he turned his head away, trying to process the news.

"No," he objected. "She doesn't want to see me."

"Jesus, House! When ... when are you going to act like an adult? You care for her! Why do you keep screwing this up like a stubborn, selfish child?"

House widened his eyes in astonishment.

"She is the one who left!" he exclaimed and a look of hurt clouded his face over.

"Yes, she left! And now what? That's it, you're going to accept it? You're going to give up on her? Just like that? ... Don't you want to know why she did it?" Wilson's tone became provoking. "No, House, that's not you… because you always want to know! You always want to have explanations."

House kept avoiding Wilson's angry accusing stare and Wilson grew really irritated by his friend's stubbornness.

"Fine! Just stay in your drunken stupor! Pop up pills if you think it'll help you forget her! But next time you'll OD, I won't be here, House! I won't be here to clean up your mess."

Wilson turned on his heel to leave but House raised his cane in front of his friend's chest to block the way and stopped him in his fit. Wilson heavily sighed and he couldn't tell whether it was out of relief or exhaustion, but it was probably both. He turned back to look at House and a tired smiled flickered on his lips.

"Cuddy called me," he said.

"Oh, right. Of course, she called you! The Board certified nice, reliable doctor-"

Wilson shot him a glare and House swallowed back his pride, trying to control his first impulsive, angry reaction as much as he could.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "Go on."

"She told me the name of a doctor she's seeing."

"But you checked Gruber and you said she didn't-" House started, puzzled.

"I never said it was someone in Princeton-"

"Please, tell me she didn't leave the country," House tried to joke, exaggeratedly rolling his eyes.

"She's in Boston," Wilson answered. "That's all I know. But that's a start, right? You could call that doctor and-"

As soon as he heard the name of the city, House's mouth dropped open, and a fond smile lit his face. Wilson didn't realize it straight away but once he did, he stopped and studied his friend, intrigued.

"Why are you smiling?"

"Of course, it's so predictable, and obvious," House said still smiling. "And yet she managed to make it … unpredictable and surprising!"

"What do you mean?

House promptly stood up and walked out of the bathroom with an inspired look on his face.

"Sorry, I need to check out something," he said mysteriously.

Wilson stayed rooted to his spot, a little bemused by this sudden burst but he finally joined House in the living room. He found him bent over his desk, typing on his computer. When he approached, House straightened up and turned to him with a large self-satisfied grin plastered on his face.

"What is it?" Wilson asked, getting increasingly disconcerted by House's renewed vitality.

"I'm gonna take a shower. Book me a seat on the next flight to Boston," House said, patting him on the shoulder.

And he limped away toward the bathroom. Wilson followed him with his gaze, completely flabbergasted and then he leaned down to the screen. What he saw written there made him roll his eyes and smile, as he understood what had caused that little sparkle of hope he'd spotted behind his friend's eyes to be back.

Benjamin and Dana Cuddy
295 Perkins St, Boston MA 02130

After a while, House reappeared, changed and clean. He looked drained and his eyes were still red, but he definitely seemed in a less pitiful condition.

"How do I look?"

"You look awful."

"Thank you. I knew you'd say something nice!" He smirked. "Are you gonna take me to the airport now?"

"House! You can't go now. You need to rest first."

"I'll have plenty of time to rest when I'm dead. Right now, I need to go to Boston. So, will you drive me to the airport, or shall I call a cab?"

Wilson sighed. It was a foregone lost game to try and stop House when he'd set his mind on something. And that "thing" his mind was set on at the moment was one he wouldn't give up on.

"Ok," Wilson said resignedly. "I'll drive you. But at least wait until you stop smelling Bourbon like a drunken hobo."

"Hobos can't afford my Bourbon!"

"Whatever! The flight is not before five-thirty anyway."

House puffed in annoyance.

"I told you the next flight to Boston!"

Wilson shook his head and gave him a helpless shrug.

"I'm not responsible for the air companies' timetables!"

House frowned and pointed an accusing finger at him.

"You! You did that on purpose! All right, fine, I'm going to rest! Happy now?"

"Yes. And after that, I strongly advise you to clean up your mess because, supposing you manage to bring Cuddy back, you wouldn't want to welcome her in the middle of the disastrous proof of how well you handled her absence."

"Why supposing?" House asked, trying to show self-confidence the best he could.

Wilson thought back to how distant and closed-up Cuddy had seemed to him when he had talked to her on the phone.

"This is not going to be easy," he said, hoping House was really aware of that himself.

"Would it still be worth the try if it was?" House answered with a mischievous smile.

A/N

not much to say I think, since the chapter speaks for itself.

because soon, as you've all guessed, you'll not only hear about Cuddy, but she and House will meet face to face...

~ maya

PS (to ItsNevrLupus): see? I think it's safe to say that the end of the tunnel is not only near, but you're NOT attached to the headlamp of a subway train, or if you are, I swear there's a VERY comfy airbag not far, that'll take your crash... :)