In the end, it was inevitable. He couldn't avoid Princeton forever.

Wilson found himself driving in Princeton one Friday evening, headed for his new goddaughter's simchat bat. Despite the six months that had gone by, everything still felt – for lack of better words – the same.

He didn't know why the hell he expected it to be different. But he did.

Plenty of people he knew from PPTH were there. They greeted him like an old friend: with hugs, kisses on the cheeks, laughter, joy, warmth. The unfortunate death of Amber had faded from their consciousness. It was Dr James Wilson in front of them – popular, compassionate, handsome, and one of their own.

Wilson expected himself to feel uncomfortable. Instead, for the first time in months, he found himself laughing and smiling and feeling happy, loosening up. With a glass of wine in his hand, he mingled with his ex-coworkers and laughed and got himself caught up on recent happenings.

It was then that he began to realize that his hastily running away from Princeton, from PPTH, had entailed more than just cutting ties with House. He'd left behind friends, and relationships, and memories, an entire life, which he had come to love and treasure and now, need. There was only so much that email, Skype and the occasional phone-call could do.

In fact, when he'd first received the news about him becoming a godfather, his instinct was to feel uncomfortable. He had felt gloriously happy for Cuddy finally having the child she'd always wanted, of course. But the selfish, cruel side of him imagined – was this some kind of ploy to lure him back to Princeton, and back into House's life again?

After all, Cuddy would do anything for House.

But then Cuddy had told him that he was the first to know that the adoption process had succeeded, and she really wanted a Jewish godfather for Rachel, and he knew he couldn't say no.

Wilson gently took the infant from Cuddy, and cradled her against his chest. She snuffled, turning her head instinctively towards him, her lips forming a perfect 'O' as she yawned. Wilson was enthralled as he traced her perfect eyebrows with his pinky finger.

Entrusted with this little girl, this human being, he felt something that had long been grey and dead in him, come alive. He felt alive.

"Hello, Rachel Cuddy," he whispered. "I'm your godpapa."

As Cuddy watched Wilson coo over Rachel, she thought back to when she had brought Rachel to meet House.

He'd been in his recliner, staring into space. She had sat down brazenly on the ottoman, pointedly ignoring his flinch as he drew away, uncomfortable at her being in his space.

Casually, she had handed her baby over to him. "This is Rachel," she had said. "Rachel, meet House."

As House held Rachel at arms' length, scrutinizing her, Cuddy swore she saw something in House's steely blue eyes soften.

No, not soften.

Crumble.

And when Rachel spit up on him, he hadn't complained. He had, instead, drew her close to him, cradling her to his chest. It was almost as if he had been in a trance, the way he slid his pinky finger into a tiny fist, lines on his face melting away, studying this little miracle in his arms.

But the moment had been fleeting. House had stiffened suddenly, as though coming back to himself. He had handed Rachel back to her, escaping quickly, seeming almost mortified at having been caught with his guard down, craving the human touch, and allowing himself to reach out, connecting with only the most innocent.

Looking at Rachel in her godfather's arms at the moment, Cuddy could not help but see the similarity. In both men, in both their quiet moments with Rachel, something had come alive.

Wilson got news of Kutner's suicide on a Tuesday morning.

Wilson was just about to go for lunch when he received the message from Cuddy. He sat down in his chair and stared into space. In his mind, Kutner was the happy-go-lucky fellow who was trigger-happy with a defibrillator. He was well-intentioned, bumbling guy who seemed like the kind to believe that everyone, even the worst of them, had some good in them. He was open-minded, and reveled in the excitement that being House's fellow inevitably brought about.

Of course, there was the whole watching-his-parents-get-killed-in-front-of-him issue, but Kutner seemed like a remarkably well-adjusted individual despite being an Indian kid in a white family.

It was the second tragedy in PPTH in less than a year. The turnout at the funeral was huge – staff and patients had liked Kutner after all. Then there was the media. Of course they had dug up information about Kutner's background.

LOCAL DOCTOR COMMITS SUICIDE

INDIAN DOCTOR WHO WATCHED PARENTS GET KILLED COMMITS SUICIDE TWENTY YEARS LATER.

CAN PTSD MANIFEST ONLY YEARS OR DECADES IN THE FUTURE?

PSYCHOLOGISTS WEIGH IN: WAS MURDER OF PARENTS ONLY FACTOR?

It was insane. Absolutely batshit insane.

Wilson felt as though he was in a fugue. Less than a year ago, he was seeing to Amber's funeral. And here he was again, at another funeral for another one of House's fellows.

He overheard some discreet conversations. There were whispers of how House could have contributed to Kutner's suicide. Did House push Kutner too hard? Did Kutner put the gun to his head after perhaps, getting fired by House? Did House make a racist joke that went too far, finally causing Kutner to snap?

Wilson overheard some of these, and involuntarily felt his hackles raise. House was rude, yes, and made inappropriate jokes, yes, but he had never done so out of pure cruelty. He had always done so to prove a point, or to show others that they were being hypocritical. And it was precisely because his team was strong enough to withstand such insults that they were good doctors. If they had proven themselves affected by words, then they would never have been able to handle the stress of being part of the Diagnostics team, or even as doctors. And Kutner had proven himself to be more than tenacious.

It was a stark contrast to a few months ago. A few months ago, Wilson would have agreed that House was a toxic presence. But time had dulled the raw, gaping wounds, and it had been almost a year.

Deaths that hit too close to home spurred people to evaluate their lives, and make changes. Just like Amber's death had caused Wilson to re-evaluate his life, and his friendship, with House. And he had found that it was not healthy, the dependency House had on him. So he had stepped away from it.

So here he was again, beginning to re-evaluate his life. And Wilson began to realize that perhaps, it wasn't always House depending on him. He too, had relied on House for fun and laughter and sarcasm in a profession where he was constantly fighting an uphill battle against Death. House had always been there when he needed to take his mind off things like his failing marriages and soul-sucking job. House made him feel like his soul wasn't being sucked away into a void of nothingness; they found joy in the small things like good beer, good cigars, bad porn, trashy TV shows, practical jokes and insane antics that included pissing Cuddy (or Foreman) off, leading the team on a wild goose chases and just… poking fun at the world.

Wilson was surrounded by people he knew at the funeral. He felt as though he was still part of PPTH, grieving for the loss of one of their own. He began to feel keenly the effects of his rash decision to uproot himself and leave. PPTH would always be a part of him. House would always be a part of him.

And Wilson began to feel okay with that.

So he couldn't stop himself from peering around, looking for a particular man. Cuddy caught Wilson's eye. He forced himself not to shift his gaze away, well-aware that she knew who he was looking for. She smiled – half encouragement, half sadness – and turned away.

It took Wilson another one and a half months before he dared venture with an email to House.

He was feeling lonely. Cuddy had asked him to stop visiting for a while. Personal reasons, she had said. Some family matters that need to be settled. I'll be busy for these few weeks. He had tried to probe, to see if he could help, but she had been distracted and (he didn't know if he was imagining it) cold towards him.

He didn't like it, especially since he'd lost so much and so many already, but he understood the need for her to sort things out with her family.

So he was lonely. And all he could think of was God I wish I could pop over to House's apartment. Where he could cook for two, watch soaps or trashy reality TV together, and just have fun.

Fun.

It was hard to remember, really, what fun was.

He remembered House calling him several times for the first two months, and not answering the calls, or even worse, answering, giving false hope, before hanging up viciously without saying a word. After the sixth call, he had changed his number.

But after Kutner's death, Wilson found himself needing more. The job at Massachusetts General was great, because there was less paperwork and more patient interaction. He had a cushy office, there was a great staff lounge that had a pool table, and he even had his own two fellows with whom he was conducting a research project on neuroblastomas. But there was no one on the hospital staff he could really click with – those around his age were married, and busy with their own families. There was Dr Wesley, but he was weird. Nurses still flirted with Wilson, but he found that he didn't derive the same joy from getting into their panties anymore.

Despite being in one of the most bustling cities of the world, surrounded by millions of people, Wilson had never felt more alone.

He was well and truly stuck, and it took several sessions with his therapist for him to figure out that perhaps, he needed to find some healing back at where he had run away from. Or, that maybe, his decision to move away had been rash. He had allowed himself barely any preparation, uprooting himself and where he had lived for years, leaving behind people and relationships and memories in a fit of pique and grief.

So the email. Wilson agonized over it for days. House wouldn't take sentimentality. He also would be able to tell if something was extraordinarily contrived. Wilson thought of an idea – he was about to publish a paper. He could ask House to help him look through it. It usually took much cajoling and bargaining for House to do so, but Wilson knew House was usually proud of his published papers. House respected him as a doctor. He tried hard to hide it, but Wilson could tell. After all, House never ripped his papers to shreds – he instead gave constructive criticism and pointed out areas for improvement.

But, that seemed like he was just using House.

So, Wilson settled for a simple email on a Tuesday morning, one month, two weeks and three days after Kutner's funeral.

Hi House,

I know we haven't spoken in months. But I just read this paper about paraneoplastic syndrome, and I somehow thought of you.

How are you?

Wilson

He waited for three days, but there was no response.

At first, he thought this was House getting one back at him, choosing to walk away from him when he had first walked away from House. But he knew House well - House would jump at the chance to reconcile with him no matter what. He knew deep down that no matter what, whether he liked it or not, he was an integral part of House's life. It was almost unhealthy, how House had come to need him.

And now, it seemed like he needed House as well.

The second email,

(Perhaps my previous email didn't get through. How are you, House? I really do want to know.)

didn't get a reply either.

By now, things were beginning to quiet from Princeton. Emails from ex-colleagues – doctors, nurses – had begun to taper off. Even Cuddy's. Wilson had never felt more disconnected.

He called Cuddy ten days after the first email.

She sounded hesitant on the phone, and he could detect the undertone of distress in her usually calm and cool voice. She was hiding something from him.

(House is not here. But he's going to be fine. No, I mean, he is fine. I… I have to go, Wilson. You take care.)

Going to be fine. What the hell did that mean?

After that, she stopped returning his calls. That meant she would rather ignore him than talk to him, for fear of divulging something. She knew all too well that she had a soft heart when it came to House and him.

In the end, it was Cameron who agreed to meet him.

He spotted the ring on her finger. "Congratulations," he said. "You and Chase…?"

She must have noticed the hurt look on his face, for she nodded, and then added, "It was a quiet ceremony, two weeks ago. Just us and a few close friends."

"Chase didn't want me there," Wilson guessed. "He's mad at me."

Cameron hesitated, and then nodded slowly.

"House… he was happy for you both?" Wilson ventured. "He must have been."

Cameron flinched. She visibly steeled herself. "You need to know something…"

Wilson heart began to speed up. He should have known. His House radar was always spot-on – that niggling feeling was there, had been there since the first email went unanswered.

He was just about to ask what happened when his mouth snapped shut.

He had thought he was ready – but now, it felt like he was not at all prepared to have the House-brand of trouble and happenings introduced back into his life at all.

"Stop," Wilson said hastily. "Stop." He stood up too quickly, almost toppling his chair over. "I have to go."

Cameron's jaw dropped. "You were one who asked to meet me!"

"I thought I was prepared for this," Wilson stumbled over his words as he shrugged on his coat. "But I'm not."

"Wilson…"

"I have to go."

"You wanted to know," insisted Cameron. She grabbed his elbow. "You need to know about this."

Wilson's heart clenched. But he knew he couldn't let himself be sucked into House's destructive vortex. He shrugged off her hand. "He has to deal with this himself. I can't always be there to prop him up."

He felt as though he were doing an elaborate dance: one step towards House was always followed by him making a retreat backwards.

It was unfair for everyone, him being this fickle-minded. He was stringing House along by sending those emails, and stringing Cameron and everyone else along by asking after House. Yet, he couldn't seem to make a clean break.

"You're abandoning him, Wilson!" Cameron strided alongside him as he made his way towards the restaurant's exit. "He made a mistake, and he's paying for it. You're running away from the one person that can give you healing!"

Wilson spun around. "Being away from him is what is working for me right now." It came out unconvincingly.

Cameron softened. The uncertainty must have been plain on his face. "You need to work things out with him. Running away isn't going to solve anything."

The tone of voice she used… Wilson finally understood why House hated it. He started to walk away, and this time, Cameron didn't follow.

"He needs you," she shouted across the parking lot.

Yeah well, I don't need him.

Wilson kept his head down and continued on and away.

I think.