Wilson measured his life by before and after now.

The accident in New York happened three months after she died. He met her a few months before. He used to be a department head before. He loved her smile before.

He came to understand one thing: when someone you love died, and you weren't expecting it, you didn't lose her all at once. You lost her in pieces over time.

Amber's perfume scent gradually faded away from his clothes. The movies she liked sat untouched on his shelf. There was no more baked pasta, or chicken parmesan, or homemade roast chicken avocado sandwiches.

Just when he thought he had gotten over it, another day would come where he would stumble across something small. Something she loved, or something she hated. And then her beautiful face, their shared memories, the way they would gravitate towards one another's bodies in bed, would surface in his mind, and the raw feeling of grief would just overwhelm him again.

As much as he liked to believe that he would be able to grieve and recover more easily away from Princeton, away from House, he was slowly realizing that it wasn't the case. She would haunt his thoughts everywhere, and anywhere. The pink roses at the florist. Norah Jones' music. Prawn and avocado salads. Mangoes. Everything and anything that he had come to know were her favourites, were now just painful reminders.

It didn't help that he still had a mug that had her lipstick stain on it.

So it had been four months since she died, and Wilson still felt stuck. Yes, he went for therapy; yes, he had more time for himself and his patients, but there was more time to think, no one to relieve the tedium and boredom from seeing dying patients back-to-back in a boring day, and no one to be just plain ol' Wilson – not Wilson the oncologist – with.

He had no way of moving forward.

Cuddy's phone call came out of the blue on a Thursday morning, three weeks after his accident in New York. Four months after.

"Wilson," her voice was barely above a whisper. Wilson had to strain to hear her. "House… His mom passed away yesterday. Heart attack in her sleep." There was pause, and then she took a deep breath. "Are you coming to the funeral? I… he… she would probably have wanted you there." Another pause. "Please, I think you should come."

Wilson was silent.

Then, she added almost in a last-ditch attempt, "Just for her."

Wilson didn't know what exactly to feel. But he found himself packing, almost robotically, and purchasing a ticket for a flight to Lexington.

He knew Blythe well. They'd spent many a day together after the infarction, caring for House. They still talked on the phone, sometimes. And she always sent him a gift on Christmas, and vice versa.

Wilson knew House had a special relationship with his mom. Blythe was the only person who could make House smile so genuinely and unabashedly. She was the only person House cared for unconditionally. He could never bring himself to disappoint her, or break her heart. And she, too, loved him unconditionally despite the sullenness and bitterness and pain she had to endure from him post-infarction.

So when Wilson found himself in the plane to Lexington, he told himself he was going there to pay his respects to Blythe House, a woman he had come to love like his own mother over the last fifteen, twenty years.

He wasn't going there for House. He wasn't.

He couldn't afford to be there for House anyway, not with the lingering grief that refused to dissipate despite the months that had gone by.

This was all for himself.

Wilson was an hour and a half late by the time he reached the funeral parlor in the rented car, thanks to the flight delay that had him waiting for three hours on the tarmac.

Hastily straightening his coat and checking his watch, Wilson jogged towards the stately-looking building, having parked several hundred yards away. He tried to push the thought – the eagerness? – of seeing House again. It was, after all, wrong of him to even anticipate seeing everyone from PPTH again. He was supposed to dread it, not look forward to it. They all had thought she was a Cut-Throat Bitch when she was in that ridiculous Survivor-esque game of House's anyway.

So yes, he was going to sit somewhere near the back and remain inconspicuous. He was here because he knew Blythe, and had liked her tremendously. He wasn't here in his capacity as House's friend.

As Wilson was approaching the funeral parlor, though, a side door burst open. Wilson stopped in his tracks and immediately pressed himself again the wall, hoping to remain out of sight.

It turned out there was no need to try conceal himself. House kept his eyes firmly on the ground as he limped almost frantically towards the main road. His face was cast in shadows, courtesy of the trees that lined the path, but Wilson could read the hunched shoulders and tense way with which House held himself.

"House!" Cuddy's voice rang out, desperation all too clear in her voice. "House, stop!"

House forged on with his head down, as if he heard nothing.

Then, with one misstep, House stumbled and fell down the three steps at the bottom of the path, landing on his side, crutch clattering to the floor.

Wilson felt himself automatically begin to move forward, the desire to help long ingrained into him, but he forced himself to stop, his heart hammering in his chest.

House extended shaking hands for the crutch and the tree trunk of a conveniently located tree to pull himself upright again before starting off determinedly towards the main road again, limp so bad it was more of a step-and-drag.

"House!" Chase, this time. And Cameron. "Please stop... Stop, House!"

But House didn't stop, instead keeping his head down and continuing to flee the scene.

"Chase… Chase, go after him!" It wasn't an order that came out of Cuddy's mouth, it was a desperate plea. "Don't let him – House! Your dad didn't mean it… Stop, House!"

Chase and Cameron ran out from the side door, chasing after the limping figure that had by now made it to the main road. Cameron slowed down by the middle of the lawn, aware that Chase was much faster, and she stood there, hands on her knees, watching as her boyfriend chased House.

But House had too far of a lead. They could only watch helplessly as House scrambled into a taxi. Chase reached the taxi, but barely even touched it before it pulled away with screeching tires.

He turned back and yelled over his shoulder, "I'll get the car!"

Cameron began running again, towards Chase, and Wilson watched as they headed towards the parking lot.

The lawn fell into silence, the commotion having abruptly ended. Wilson tried to still his thumping heart, tried to pretend that he wasn't positively dying to find out what had happened, only to run nearly head-on into Cuddy.

He found himself asking, "What happened?" God, he hated how desperately he wanted to know.

"He punched House…" Cuddy whispered frantically. "John House… House's dad… He punched House." She sounded like she couldn't quite believe it. "God, he actually punched House in front of everyone."

"What?" To say Wilson was taken aback was an understatement. Sure, House had never been on great terms with John House, but to have John House actually resort to violence at Blythe's funeral was the last thing Wilson expected. John House valued far too much his appearance and image, and it would have been further so in front of his ex-Marine friends… right?

Right at that very moment, John House strode out of the funeral parlor. And from what Wilson saw, John House had lost none of his confidence and energy despite years having gone by. The way he walked, the way he moved, all proclaimed his identity as a war veteran to the world.

"Where is my son?" John House asked. He didn't shout, but the lethal undercurrent of anger in his voice was plain. "Where's Greg?"

"Mr House… I - "

"Colonel House."

Cuddy flinched. "Colonel House – "

"Don't make any excuses for Greg. He always does this: hiding behind someone's back, making excuses. He just doesn't want to make an effort. He always takes the easy way out."

Cuddy's mouth snapped shut, and she involuntarily took a step back. It was Colonel House the decorated Marine, standing in front of them, not John House, husband of Blythe House for fifty years.

John House's gaze shifted over to Wilson, who stood there mutely with his hands shoved in his pockets. He narrowed his eyes. "You weren't here with Greg earlier."

Wilson forced a smile onto his face. There was no need to let John House know what had happened between him and House. "I got held up at the hospital."

"I tried to call you several times when we couldn't reach Greg," John said accusingly.

Wilson winced internally. He'd changed his number in a concerted bid to leave everything behind and literally start afresh. "I… changed my number."

The scrutinizing look that House usually had was eerily similar to that which was on John's face at the moment. John seemed to realize something. "Something happened between you and Greg."

Wilson ducked his head, not quite sure what to do at this point.

"So what did he do to piss you off? That boy never knows his limits. I always told Blythe, it's a matter of time before Greg steps over the line. She always told me that she was so glad Greg had a friend like you. She was always praising you."

Wilson felt a pang in his heart at Blythe's trust in him. Like everyone who mourned the death of someone who they had known well, he thought he should have kept in better contact with her.

"Well, Wilson. I can't say I blame you. Greg has a gift for pissing people off. Couldn't even bring himself to read an eulogy for his own mother at her funeral. And she was always so good to him. I told her Blythe, don't be too lenient with him. And look what he is now. He is a disgraceful – "

"Colonel House," Cuddy cut in, her eyes blazing. She straightened, visibly enraged. "I told you he was having a migraine. It was agony for him to even – "

John was matter-of-fact, and that was perhaps what was most chilling. "Excuses, Dr Cuddy. Don't shield him. He's never had them – " Wilson found himself scuffing the heel of his leather shoes against the gravel at that statement. "He's always been a lazy – "

"Colonel?"

John was interrupted by the pastor, who had suddenly appeared behind him. The pastor shot Cuddy and Wilson a look before laying a hand on John's shoulders and saying, "We are waiting for you. We're about to finish things for the day."

As the pastor led John away, Wilson couldn't take his eyes off John, who had slumped his shoulders as he remembered that he was at his wife's funeral., letting himself be led away by the pastor. Wilson, against all odds, found himself feeling sorry for John, who had lost his wife, only to have his only son be unwilling to read an eulogy for his mother. As an ex-Marine, he had probably wanted everything to go off without a hitch.

"You okay?" he says softly to Cuddy, who, too, is staring at the two older men walk away. "He was rather… He's like that." He told himself that John House was a grieving widower. Maybe he was one of those who expressed his grief by lashing out at others. His son, specifically.

Cuddy nodded, somewhat speechless. Her cell phone rang.

"Chase... Please tell me you managed to catch up with… He could be anywhere…" Cuddy sighed and pinched her nose bridge. "He hasn't been to a bar in months… Yeah… Keep me updated…"

Cuddy snapped her phone shut with an efficient click, and turned to face Wilson. Wilson found himself asking, "How has he been?"

Cuddy pressed her lips together, forming a sad smile. "How do you think he's been? His balance and coordination are still off, and the migraines are debilitating.

The look of hope and desperation on her face was too obvious to Wilson who found, to his surprise, that he desperately did want to know how House was doing. But at the same time, he couldn't bring himself to get involved with House again. He was doing so well away from House now. He couldn't go back to what it used to be. He was doing fine, he told himself firmly. "Look, Wilson. I know – "

"I better go in," Wilson said hastily. "I'm here to pay my respects to Blythe, after all. Then I'll have to rush back to the hospital." He tugged Cuddy into a hug, and planted a kiss on her cheek. "We'll catch up soon, Cuddy."

Before Cuddy had a chance to even react, Wilson was turning away and heading into the funeral parlor, leaving her standing alone on the pathway, cellphone in hand.

Cuddy closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Making her choice, she turned away from the funeral parlor, and got into her car.

Wilson found himself sitting outside the funeral parlor on a bench, staring at the willow trees. The feeling of attending yet another funeral, mourning yet another death, and losing yet another person he knew, hit far too close to home.

"I'm Pastor Lyons," remarked the silver-haired man who sat down next to Wilson. "You are…?"

Wilson extended his hand. "Dr James Wilson."

"You're a doctor? Like Gregory, then."

"Oncology. We used to work in the same hospital together."

"Tough specialty." Pastor Lyons remarked. "My sister dropped out of it after she realised she couldn't handle seeing dying patients everyday. You must be very brave."

Wilson shrugged with a polite smile.

"You seem troubled, Dr Wilson."

Wilson had never been a particularly religious Jew. But somehow, with the gentle grandfatherly pastor – who reminded him so much of his own grandfather - sitting next to him, he found himself telling him, "My girlfriend died a few months ago. In a bus accident. It's just… a little hard to handle right now."

"I'm sorry for your loss."

Wilson accepted the condolences with a nod, but eagerly changed the subject. "It was a beautiful service for Blythe, despite what happened earlier."

At this, the pastor sighed and leaned back against the bench. "John wanted it to go perfectly. It wasn't perfect, but that doesn't mean it wasn't beautiful."

"That is true."

"John always had been harsh on Greg." Wilson shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "He's an impatient man, and couldn't always deal with Greg's questions and need to know why. Blythe, on the other hand, loved how inquisitive her boy was. She was so proud of him when he became a doctor. He was her pride and – "

"I have to go," Wilson interrupted hastily. "I – I need to head back to the hospital. It was nice meeting you, Pastor Lyons."

Pastor Lyons stared at Wilson sadly, as though he had more to say. He considered things for a while before reluctantly saying, "Don't let an old man like me hold up a good doctor like you." He clapped Wilson on the shoulders, standing up, and nodded. "It must be hard moving on, but what feels like a fresh, sharp wound now, will eventually heal. It will leave a scar, and you'll never be able to forget it. But one day, you'll realize that it doesn't hurt anymore, and that you can move on, and that what you have left with you that can never be taken away is that happy memories. I pray that you will find healing and forgiveness. All the best, Dr Wilson."

Pastor Lyons watched Wilson walk away with his wise, sad eyes. He stared out over the hill for a while, before turning and heading back to his office, filled with a sense of regret that he would never be able to meet someone else to talk about the tumultuous relationship between John and Gregory.

He had wanted to find out whether House had truly gotten over, or even emerged stronger from, what he had endured during his childhood. He was an old man now, and he wanted to get off his chest what he had kept secret since all those years ago when he was a cowardly, patriotic young man who was unwilling to ruin the image and name of one of the most respected war veterans in their little town.

Jacob Lyons knew he would never be able to forgive himself for not intervening and stepping in to help the frightened, scrawny child that was six-year-old Gregory House.

"Oh god, there he is," Cameron leaned forward, straining at her seatbelt. She pointed at the sole figure sprawled outside House's apartment. "Pull over, quick."

It was scarily easy to maneuver the half-conscious and dead-drunk House into the apartment. A man as tall as House should have weighed at least twenty pounds more. House mumbled incoherently as they set him down on the bed, curling up slightly around a grey blanket.

"Oh," exclaimed Cameron in dismay as House's shirt rode up to reveal a stunning bruise on his hip. She immediately went in search for first-aid supplies.

Chase took it upon himself to remove House's shoes, coat and blue dress shirt, leaving him in a grey t-shirt that he was sure used to fit tighter on House. It felt reminiscent of the times he would take care of his mother when she was in too much of a drunken stupor to even get into bed, and he hated it.

Cameron came back with sparse supplies and got to work on the nasty abrasions on House's elbow, forearm and left hand. The split lip and shiner on his jaw courtesy of John House would eventually fade. The bruise on his hip, spreading right down to the edge of the scar on House's leg, would prove to be hell for the next few weeks.

Chase sighed as he deposited House's keys and phone on the bedside table.

"I can't believe he walked home from The Brown Shoe," whispered Cameron. "It's five miles from here. He could have gotten mugged. Or worse."

Chase frowned. It turned out that House had him as "Wombat" on the cell phone, and it was the odd name that had prompted the bartender to dial his number instead of the others. It turned out that to be the only thing the bartender did right, because when Chase and Cameron arrived at the bar, the bartender had sheepishly told them that he'd lost sight of House.

House mumbled something in his sleep before clutching the grey blanket tighter to his chest.

Chase said nothing. He was furious. Not with House. He was feeling angry with Wilson, who had walked away without even a look back. He was feeling angry at House's father, who had actually punched House in front of countless other people. He was angry with himself, for not having tried harder to dissuade House and Wilson from the DBS. It gnawed at him everyday when he saw House, and remembered how he'd had a part to play in things coming to this juncture. Cuddy had never really forgiven him for it, and he couldn't blame her.

Cameron pulled the covers up around House, cleaned up, and sent a text to Cuddy. House's apartment was in disarray, with books all over the floor and haphazardly stacked, but Cameron resisted the urge to clean up. Making sure to leave no trace that they'd been here behind, Chase and Cameron let themselves out of House's apartment.

Chase found himself gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles, unable to simply drive away. Cameron silently pulled his head onto her shoulder, wrapping her arm around him.