Wilson left on a Friday, so the next time House came back to the hospital, it was a Monday. They expected him to come in hung over and in a mess. They steeled themselves for the worst insults and harshest criticisms.
But House was, for lack of a better word, fine.
The first few days were unpleasant. It would slip their minds sometimes – whenever there was a possibility that it was cancer, someone would inadvertently suggest a consult from Wilson. Once, even House made that same mistake. Each time, House would freeze for just a fraction of a second. The team would hold their breaths, waiting for some sort of reaction.
But each time, he would blink, gathering himself together, as though pulling in the frayed ends of himself that threatened to escape from his control, and continue on.
Then everything would go on like normal. The team would exhale, exchange looks, and thank the gods that they didn't stir up any trouble for themselves.
Then one week melted into two.
They never knew what Wilson said to House before he left, but judging from the utter lack of communication, and from how, according to Cuddy, Wilson refused to talk about, or listen to anything about House, they got the idea.
The days took on a routine.
House would come in on time. He accepted cases without arguing. The differential would be like any other. He would do his clinic duty voluntarily without Cuddy drag him off to do it. He stayed there for the full amount of time, without whining or causing problems. He didn't try to escape early. He answered pages, didn't insult idiotic patients, didn't harass other doctors or nurses, and didn't skive off work. Interaction with his team was limited to differentials and discussions about the patient. He dedicated all of his time to the cases – no more playing of pranks, no more harassing nurses or technicians, no more interfering in the private lives of his teams. Instead of roaming the halls of the hospital wreaking havoc, he kept to himself in his office, not coming out unless it was absolutely necessary.
Diagnoses that usually came with Wilson were gone, since the man who provided the said epiphanies wasn't around anymore.
The cure rate of the Diagnostics Department dropped slightly. It was still phenomenally high for the national average, but it was a career-low for House. Still, House seemed okay with that. The team was okay with that, since it was still the highest in the country.
So each day, House would fulfill his duties as the Head of the Diagnostics Department. And at the end of the day, he would go home, drink enough scotch or bourbon or whisky to induce a nice alcohol buzz, warmth and sleepiness. Then he would take a bath, brush his teeth, and stare at the TV for a while before crawling into bed and sleeping dreamless sleep.
And it would start all over again with the dawn of a new day.
Cuddy stood outside Exam Room 1, and took a deep breath.
Two weeks became three, and soon, it had been a month since Wilson left. House was still doggedly persisting in being the perfect doctor that he never was, and he showed no signs of cracking.
On the record, House was with a patient. But for some reason, she found herself hoping that that wasn't what he was doing. In fact, she was praying that he was watching a soap, or playing one of his PSP games.
She knocked on the door, and then pushed it open slowly.
Lo and behold, House was with a patient. An obviously worried mother, who was carrying a wailing baby, watched as House examined a small girl's throat. Cuddy winced at the incredibly powerful lungs of the infant, who was oblivious to the frantic hushing of his mother.
House didn't look at her. He didn't even seem fazed at the ear-splitting cries of distress that reverberated in the small exam room.
He turned to the young mother, raising his voice slightly but calmly so that he could be heart over the din. "The tests showed that it's strep throat. I'll prescribe you some antibiotics."
"Is it contagious?"
"The symptoms take a few days to show, so she might have passed it on. Just come back if anyone else falls ill."
He limped over to the counter, and leaned over as he scribbled on his prescription pad. He ripped it off, and handed it over to the frazzled young mother.
She took it, and as she walked past Cuddy towards the door, she turned around and said earnestly, "Thank you, Dr House. You've been a great help."
Cuddy swallowed hard.
He didn't reply as he looked down at the charts in his hand, already preparing for the next patient.
"House…" Cuddy stepped forward from the corner she had been standing in. There was no annoyance or exasperation in her voice. There hadn't been any, for the past week. At least, not any directed towards House.
"I'm doing my clinic duty."
Before she could summon up some sort of adequate response, he left the room and walked towards the reception desk. She followed him out, still trying to figure out what to say. He picked up the next patient file, and turned to the crowd of sick people in the waiting area.
"Eli Penton," he announced. Every bit the good doctor.
An old man stood up slowly, and followed House into the exam room. Cuddy could only watch as House disappeared behind the door.
Nurse Brenda came up to stand next to her.
"House," she whispered urgently, "has not insulted me once at all today. And he's treated six STIs and three colds without complaining." She paused, before continuing, "Is he okay?"
Nurse Brenda wasn't the only one who noticed the change. It was obvious to all the staff in the hospital that the sudden change in Dr Gregory House came immediately after the departure of a Dr James Wilson.
But whatever it was, for most of them, it was a good change. For once, Human Resources wasn't struggling to handle complaints against House. The hospital lawyers weren't working their asses off to settle potential lawsuits. The clinic was functioning well with House doing more hours than necessary.
Other than the fact that they had just lost one of the best oncologists in the country, PPTH seemed to be doing better.
He wondered how he could go on.
There was supposed to be a Wilson-shaped hole in his life, right? He half-expected himself to fall to pieces without Wilson in his life. He never realized just how much time he spent with Wilson – lunches, pranks, barging into his office, conversations at the balcony.
But he found that, somehow, he could go on.
That's what he always managed to do, right? He dealt with things, and moved on. Nothing could get him down. He was House. He wasn't like anyone else. Everyone knew he was impenetrable, strong, and not like everyone else.
Cuddy, Chase and Cameron had taken to popping into his office for visits. He vaguely realised that he was supposed to be annoyed or something, but he oddly didn't feel anything. And so he didn't do anything to stop them.
Three weeks went by. He felt as though he was bursting at the seams, yet he felt strangely empty. He wondered if they could tell.
Then one Friday, he noticed that Jacobs from Neurology had taken over Wilson's office. He went home that day, emptied an entire bottle of bourbon on an empty stomach, and fell asleep on the floor. He woke up on Saturday afternoon, spent quality time with the toilet, and went to bed. He lay on his side in bed, and cradled his phone in his hands.
For the first time in three weeks, he dialed Wilson's number.
It barely rang twice before it was cut off.
House very slowly put the phone back on bedside table. He stared at his wall for a long time, before he finally fell asleep.
Monday came, and for once, House didn't come in to work earlier than usual. In fact, he didn't turn up at all. Immediately, their worst fear was that he'd done something stupid. After all, he had seen Jacobs move into Wilson's office.
But then her phone rang, and it was him.
"Not coming in today." His voice was oddly matter-of-fact. "Sick."
He didn't come in on Tuesday, then Wednesday, then Thursday, then Friday. He stopped calling in on Wednesday.
Cuddy stood outside House's apartment together with Chase on Friday evening. She'd only brought Chase along because he'd insisted.
After a minute or so, Chase finally managed to get the door open.
They found House in the bedroom, lying spread-eagled on his bed. His eyes were open, and he was staring at the ceiling. He had a grey blanket folded neatly on his chest, and he fingered the frayed edges of it.
Chase slipped out of the room quietly.
"House?" Cuddy ventured.
"Here." He didn't look away from the ceiling. "Sup."
"What are you doing?"
"I'm sick."
Chase re-entered the room, and whispered into Cuddy's ear. "There are three empty bottles of whisky and bourbon in the living room. His cupboards are empty… But he's been ordering take-out."
Cuddy cleared her throat, and then turned to House. "Are you drunk?"
"Haven't been for two days."
She sat down on the bed next to him, and looked at him closely. Sure enough, his eyes weren't glazed over.
"You haven't come into work for a week."
He didn't look away from the ceiling, nor move an inch. "Okay."
"Are you feeling okay?"
"I'm great." He blinked. "Just peachy."
"House... What are you doing?"
"Lying on my bed."
"No, what are you doing, really?" she asked gently. She wasn't just referring to what he was doing at the moment, but what he was going to do, or had been doing for the past three weeks.
"Trying to sleep."
"How long have you been lying here?"
He shrugged.
"Have you gotten up at all?"
"Sure."
Chase and Cuddy exchanged worried glances. House still hadn't moved an inch, and was still staring at the ceiling as he replied them in that frighteningly empty voice. He was supposed to chase them out, or yell at them, or something.
"House…"
"I'm okay."
"You're depressed."
He blinked.
He wondered if he was depressed. Was he supposed to be plagued by some sort of deep sadness that wouldn't go away? Or feel like killing himself? Or some sort of despair? Because currently, he didn't feel anything.
"I'm not depressed," he replied truthfully.
Chase came to stand beside Cuddy, joining in the conversation. "Then what are you feeling?"
House shrugged.
"You've got to be feeling something."
He blinked at the ceiling again, trying to summon up a word to describe his total lack of emotion.
"I feel… nothing."
"Nothing?"
He shrugged.
Cuddy reached out to touch his arm. And he let her. Until he realized that her touch was invoking some sort of feeling in him. Slowly, he became aware of a burning feeling in his eyes, and a hollow pit in his stomach. Her touch seemed to burn through his very skin.
He curled up abruptly, and turned away from them. He shook out the blanket – he would never tell them that this was the one Wilson always used when he slept over – and wrapped himself in it.
He scrabbled desperately for the feelings and emotions that had started to leak out from his stronghold on them, but they seemed determine to escape from him after her touch had sprung the release button on them. It was so much easier to feel nothing, than to feel the myriad of feelings flashing by in him right now. He felt his heart ache, and speed up dreadfully at all the negative feelings that welled up in him.
"I'm going to sleep now."
He hoped they couldn't hear the tremble in his voice.
The feelings that weren't supposed to exist were there, right there, and they were threatening to take hold of him and never let him go.
He'd never felt this way, not for anyone else. No one could invoke such strong feelings in him. No one ever made him feel like crying, or so filled with regret that he wished he actually had not woken from the coma, or that he'd died in the bus crash. Gregory House never regretted his actions, or wished that past events could have happened differently. Never. He believed that whatever happened, happened. That was that. Nothing could change the past. So he didn't believe in regret, or crying over spilt milk. Until now. And it frightened him. He had never felt so… wrong in his life. He felt it in his very bones, in every single molecule of his body, that he was wrong.
He closed his eyes, and refused to turn over. He was so dangerously close to losing control that he didn't know if he could hold it in if he looked into their eyes. He wasn't sure if he could take the pity, or the care and concern.
You're like a poison, House.
All he could think of was how he was wrong. How he was at fault. He killed Amber. It was his fault, and he was suffering for it now. Wilson was right. He was a poison, a toxic chemical, harmful to everyone around him. He tried his best to save Amber, but it wasn't enough. He couldn't even blame Wilson for leaving.
It scared him like hell that he didn't know if he could be right anymore.