One conversation

A.N. There's a fair bit of swearing in this, hence this note at the beginning. Probably not breakfast reading.

So, um, this is the hundredth chapter. I started in December 2019 with plans to write a few and see what happened. Now it's kinda taken over my life. Rarely a day goes by when I don't think about this story. Weird, huh? Big thanks to everyone who has shown their support, especially regular reviewers. You guys really are a great motivator! I can't promise another hundred chapters, but I do have long-term plans.


Wilson and Mathilde were chatting on the sofa, enjoying some well-earned alone time. The oncologist had his own reasons for the recent reclusiveness, but she too had been busy. The Christmas period always saw a marked increase in patient numbers as long-distant family members reunited, bringing with them a motley collection of contagious conditions. Nurses were the first point of contact, and as a relatively new hire Mathilde bore the brunt. This evening was, therefore, the couple's first night in for a couple of weeks at least, and they intended to enjoy it.

"How was the bolognese, then?", asked Wilson.

"Actually not bad. You really got the ratio of ground beef to tomatoes to spaghetti exactly right". Mathilde sucked up the last strand and placed her plate on the coffee table.

"You have some sauce on your…". Wilson reached across and wiped her cheek.

But as he withdrew, she flicked his thumb with her tongue mischievously. "Have you finished eating?".

"Pretty much".

"You wanna make out on the couch?", she grinned.

"Gee, OK". The oncologist scooted across to her and their lips were just about to meet when aggressive knocking resonated through the living room. "Goddamit", he mumbled into her mouth.

"Don't tell me that's House".

"Who else do you think is gonna be banging on my door like that at this time of night?".

"How did he get into the block? We could ignore him…", she offered as the pounding continued.

"Won't work. If I don't answer he'll be picking the lock within five minutes".

"Ugh, fine". Mathilde sighed in resignation and moved to take their plates into the kitchen as Wilson opened the door.

"What is it-?", he began as it swung open.

Instead of answering, House punched him in the face.


The shock of the hit sent Wilson staggering backwards into the table standing in the hallway. The vase it supported crashed to the floor and smashed, brown flower water spreading across the polished wood. "James?", called Mathilde from the kitchen.

House gave a short laugh, and his words were sneering. "Standard. A spot of betrayal in the morning then a bit of sex in the evening".

The oncologist held his nose, which was bleeding freely. "House, what the fuck-!".

House strode forwards and stood over the other. "After everything we've been through, you do this?".

"What are you talking about? You punched me!".

The commotion had brought Mathilde into the hallway, where she observed in stunned silence the scene before her. Seeing Wilson's bleeding nose, she ran back to the kitchen and returned carrying a wet cloth, which she pressed to his face. "What the hell is going on?".

"Shut up, woman", said House shortly.

Mathilde bridled at this, but Wilson intervened. "House. In the living room. Now".

The man himself glowered, but at length stalked past and out of sight, leaving the couple alone. "He's a maniac. We should call the police", she whispered.

"No. I'll deal with him-".

"-your nose is bleeding".

"It's fine. I'm fine. Just…can you just get something to clean up this vase? You can go home after that". Wilson's words were thick and nasal, the cloth blossoming red.

"I'm not leaving you alone with that freak", she reiterated.

"He's not a freak", he sighed. "Just…angry. Please. This needs to be between us".

Still she was unconvinced. "Are you sure-?".

"-yes!". This emerged somewhat harsher than intended, and Wilson sighed again. "Sorry, sorry. Must be blood loss", he laughed weakly.

"Don't worry. I'll tidy this up. Keep pressure on that nose".

The oncologist pecked her on the lips and made his way into the living room where House still paced. Wilson felt like he was walking the plank. The two men faced each other. "Explain yourself", said the taller.

"I will, but maybe you should sit".

"Explain. Yourself". House was not in a sitting mood.

Wilson sighed but took a seat. "First of all, I'd like to know how you even found out about this".

"Your email account".

This answer raised yet more questions, but Wilson saw that to ask them would be pointless. No. House was right. He owed an explanation. "I was trying to protect you".

"That's bullshit!", snapped the other, and for a second Wilson thought he was about to swing again. "You fucking betrayed me".

"I was trying to protect you!", he repeated firmly.

Before House could reply, Mathilde strode in and handed her partner a fresh cloth, the first one now resembling the red handkerchief of a Spanish matador. "The vase is ruined, but I've wiped up the mess. I'll be going, then". With a malevolent glance at House and a tender one at Wilson, she quietly left the apartment, closing the door softly behind her.

The silence lasted a few seconds before the oncologist continued: "let me explain".

"Fine. Explain".


Much as they had done all those months ago, House and Wilson spent the next hour in conversation. The reason for the latter's scarcity emerged. In the first instance, Wilson had taken on the case of his friend's clinic patient from a fortnight ago. Patients frequently changed hands as their symptoms developed and it wasn't in itself an issue: case notes would simply be copied between all doctors involved in treatment. But the problem was, firstly, that Wilson had acted on his own initiative without House being aware; and secondly, that he had actively kept the treatment schedule hidden from both his friend and the central hospital system. Wilson had carried out something of a daylight robbery on the one man who trusted him the most.

For House, it was the principle of the thing. He hated clinic and would happily be rid of it if he could. But Ahmed was his patient. No one else's. Only last year he had lied without compunction to the transplant committee in a case concerning a high-flying executive's overuse of ipecac to induce vomiting. This habit had ruined the woman's heart and would have prevented her receiving a transplant. But, after a chat, he informed her of his intention to withhold this information from the authorities. She had asked why he was willing to risk his medical licence for someone he didn't even know. House's reply had been simple: because you are my patient.

"The worst thing", said House to Wilson, "is that goddam Glenda knows about this too. I mean, she's a nurse".

"Brenda was on duty at the time".

"This should've been between us. If you'd just come to me, I'd have-".

"-you'd have what? Admitted your mistake and fixed it?".

"Yes!", returned House, whirling around on the spot and facing his friend. "It's no big deal, one mistake. Who cares? Clubbing's easy to miss".

Wilson shook his head. "You're the most observant man I've ever met".

"Yeah, well", he shrugged, "I'm not perfect. Maybe I had an off day".

"An off day. What were you doing?".

"I was-". House had been about to confess his fooling around with Cameron in the janitors' closet but swiftly decided otherwise. "-feeling ill", he finished.

"Hmm". Wilson's soft brown eyes tracked the other's movements. "An off day. And an off few months".

"What?". House stopped pacing. The cell in his pocket vibrated with an incoming message but he ignored it.

The oncologist sighed and took a sip of the water Mathilde had brought in prior to leaving. His nose had stopped bleeding but still throbbed, and if he didn't have a black eye tomorrow it would be a small miracle. House had thrown a decent right hook upon learning Wilson's clandestine manoeuvrings. How was he going to react when he learnt the rest? "I've…I've been, uh, reviewing your case files", he said slowly.

"What?". The word carried threat.

"After Ahmed I wanted to ensure that it was just a blip-".

"-fuck you. What gives you the right to do that?".

"I was trying to help you. After I found-".

"-found what? What did you find?".

"I found, I found…".

"Spit it out before I do something I regret".

There was nothing for it but to take the plunge. "It wasn't a blip, House. I found a number of mistakes. Some fairly serious, some not". The oncologist's voice was low, and he tossed the cloth onto the couch. The blood on its threads was beginning to dry and flake.

"Bullshit", the other snapped.

"I checked every single case, Greg. Every single one, from your return to now".

"To now? You looked into the girl? I was working on her just two days ago and you were fucking looking into me? My best friend…". House sank to the couch across from Wilson and dug his hands into his eye sockets. This was not only anger; it was wounded disbelief. But he would judge the personal hurt later – for now, his brain needed to focus on the medicine. There was not a snowball's chance in hell that Wilson would know enough to correct his mistakes. The guy was a narrow-minded specialist. "It's impossible. The cases have been fine".

"Most have; several haven't".

"Like what? Name one".

"The marine. Died without a diagnosis". Wilson remembered this case well, because soon after Cuddy had challenged House in the cafeteria over his carrying out of an unauthorised autopsy.

"There was nothing we could do. I checked everything".

Wilson shook his head. It hurt him to do this, but House needed to know the truth. "You missed Bolivia".

"No, we did a history. We got all his tours".

"Did you? Who took the history?".

"I don't know. But I checked everything personally".

"Well, he died of thallium poisoning most likely. A urine test would have picked it up".

"But there was no hair loss. It's impossible. Impossible!". It simply could not be that Wilson had realised this simply from examining the records, while he (and the team) had missed something right in front of his face.

"I researched it. Turns out there were a few similar deaths from his old platoon around the same time. One of the guys was actually at Holy Cross; another in Miami; one more in Texas". The oncologist completed the list from memory, so much time had he spent on this problem.

"How was I to know? I'm not Sherlock fucking Holmes".

"Aren't you?", asked Wilson, head tilted. The one thing about House was precisely his detective skills. And these skills had been diluted over this period. "What were you doing around that time?".

House released a growl of anguish and got once more to his feet. "It was a couple of days after my second date with Cameron…". A time of happiness. He shook his head. "One mistake doesn't mean jack shit".

"Soon after you restarted, Dennis Calvert, the firefighter-".

"-he was cured".

"After delays which nearly cost him an eye. What caused those delays?".

"I don't answer to you", House shot back with venom. He knew exactly what had caused them, because it was during that period that he undertook reconnaissance on Cameron to assess her suitability.

"No, you answer to your patients".

"Save the self-righteousness, Jimbo. It's pretty unattractive".

"Is that what you think this is? I'm trying to make you see".

"See what?", he repeated acidly.

"You've been distracted. You've lost your edge. And I think you know you've lost it".

"Don't throw those fucking conversations at me, OK. I'm not in the mood". Several times over these last few months, House had known, and confided both to Wilson and Cameron, the difficulties he had faced balancing his personal and professional life. The cheerleader, close to death, shimmered before his eyes. Her name was Poonam, and he had retired to his office late at night to stare at the whiteboard of symptoms. Then Cameron had brought coffee and donuts, and the two had argued about the situation before making up and spending the night in his easy chair.

"I want you to be happy, Greg, but-".

"-I am happy. You've said so many times".

"I have", Wilson agreed. "But the situation has changed. At some point, someone is going to die".

"'Someone'", he scoffed. "You talk in abstracts, but I want to talk about how you went behind my back, undermined my diagnoses, checked my work like a grade school teacher. You had no right!".

"Lisa Kaplinsky-", began Wilson.

"-stop".

"Marcus Asher-".

"Stop!". House slammed his fist against the windowsill and silence descended. On the mantelpiece Wilson's antique clock ticked past the hour, the clock around which were clustered several photographs of his family, including two with House. "These…errors. They've come out of the blue. My team has raised no concerns", he murmured, hands clasped together.

"D'you think they tell you everything? You've been back for months, and you've treated a lot of people. Cases start to bleed into each other and before you can reflect on one, another emergency comes along. You've said yourself that Diagnostics is on the front line".

House scoffed but said nothing as he stared at the floor, trying to piece things together.

"Or maybe", continued Wilson, "your team has also been distracted".

"No".

"So it's been plain sailing with the fellows, then?".

"Pretty much". As he spoke, House's mind flicked back to the various little areas of conflict that had arisen in recent times: a weird love triangle with Chase and Cameron; his own retreat from the hospital for a few days; Foreman's efforts to promote himself over the others, including his threat to leave. Had all this subtly undermined the department? Surely not. It ran on conflict. Although with he and Cameron now together, the dynamic had definitely changed.

"House". Wilson leant forwards. "It's not just diagnostics. Your clinic coverage has been…erratic. By my count, a full third of your patients have made multiple visits".

"People are stupid", House waved his hand in the air, dismissing this point. "If I'd really fucked up, I'd know. Cuddy would be all up my ass".

"You don't make mistakes, House. Not usually, anyway".

"Just shut up and let me think".

The oncologist held his hands up in acceptance and went off to find some painkillers, leaving the other hunched in a chair. But he made it as far as the door before being called back. "Let's assume for the sake of argument that you're right. Who else is in the loop?".

"No one. Brenda only knows about the Amina Ahmed situation. I contained it".

"What a swell guy you are", he commented archly. Again the phone in his pocket vibrated, but again he ignored it.

When Wilson returned ten minutes later, it was clear that House had not moved his position. "You want a drink?".

House carried on as if he hadn't spoken. "I know what you're asking me to do".

"I'm not asking you to do anything. I'm presenting to you the facts of the situation".

"You're wired to meddle. You're insinuating that Cameron is to blame for this".

Wilson tilted his head. "If anyone's to blame, House, it's you. You're the one with the problem".

House exhaled through his nose. Wilson's observation was heartless but, he had to admit, both rational and accurate. After all, Cameron had said herself the steps she had taken to compartmentalise each aspect of her life. But House was not wired that way. It was all or nothing. No half-measures. "Cameron is the best thing in my life".

"Yes", agreed Wilson, "she is".

"You're acting like you never make mistakes".

"Everyone makes mistakes".

"Right".

"But you're not 'everyone', House. If you honestly think I'm wrong to be worried about you, if you honestly think I'm overreacting, then you should tell me to shut up and leave you alone".

House made a guttural noise of non-committal, before adding: "I hope that nose is hurting you".

"It is, don't worry".

"I'm not sorry about what I did".

"Neither am I".

The pair slipped into a heavy silence. Wilson sipped his water and closed his eyes, waiting for the pills to take effect. When he looked up again House was at the window, gazing into the night, brooding, like a statue, still and soulless.