Guilty

A.N. I promise that things will look up soon. In one particular sense, anyway.


For the next fortnight, House fell into a deep depression and everything lost its appeal. The caseload, which since Christmas had been borderline unbearable, dried to a trickle. Chase and Foreman, long used to the fits and starts of Diagnostics, kept themselves busy in other ways, and Thirteen continued with the restless enthusiasm of a new hire—she helped out in the clinic, explored opportunities for co-operation with other departments, carried out her own research.

Meanwhile, House languished. He still came into work, but that was only because he feared what he might do, what he might drink, what he might swallow, if he were alone at home. The spectre of physical pain had long since abated, but for a while now emotional pain had taken its place. Instead of a formerly familiar gnawing in his right leg, now there was an ache in his chest, always in the background. Souls did not exist, and still he felt like a part of his being was damaged somehow.

And yet, for all that, he had done a lot of thinking; thinking about his relationship with both medicine and with Cameron.

If things with her had been gradually improving, then he had now torpedoed those efforts. Such a silly thing. House rarely bothered with self-reflection, but in this case he understood and accepted how foolish he had been. He prided himself on retaining control, but lately that control had lapsed. Ever since Wilson had burst his bubble of happiness late last year, House had felt like a man hurtling from one situation to the next, never stopping to look and listen, hoping only to bury his sadness in work. It wasn't Wilson's fault, though. He had no one to blame but himself.

House sat alone in his darkened office, drumming his fingers on the desk. Since Christmas the work had gone fantastically well. Not a single death. Even the nine year-old girl referred by Cameron on the evening of his idiocy had survived in the end. A tricky diagnosis, an even harder prognosis. Thirteen's insight underlay the key breakthrough.

But there was no thrill of a completed case.

The question had always been whether ending his relationship would enable him to restore focus and get back to doing medicine properly, getting back to his very identity. But in that calculation he had forgotten, first, to add in the variable of happiness. Obviously, he'd anticipated being sad for a while, expecting that things would recover. Things had not worked out like that.

Second, however, his calculation had failed to account for the possibility that Cameron herself posed a puzzle that could rival those he derived from medicine. This was by no means a new reflection, since he had said as much to Cuddy and Wilson during their discussion concerning the immunologist last year, before the beginning of the time of happiness. But since they had been apart he had often caught himself not just thinking, but wondering about her. There was so much he hadn't yet discovered, so many puzzles he never had the time to solve. The puzzles of maintaining a relationship, being in love, watching her every day, maybe sharing a life with her. Different kinds of puzzles, to be sure, but engrossing and exciting all the same.

None of this mattered anymore. Sebastian Charles had somehow or other wormed himself more fully into the hospital. House didn't really know how this had happened and he cared even less. From memory Cuddy perhaps mentioned something about offering him a space for an upcoming conference on TB. Regardless, House had seen he and Cameron around. And good luck to her. She deserved better than him.

A knock on the door. Wilson. "Hey, what're you up to?".

"Brooding", he grunted.

"Come back to mine? It's Wednesday. Figured we could do movie night". Although House had shared nothing of his conversation with Cameron, Wilson suspected something significant had occurred, and he'd made it a habit to check in on his friend.

"Why? You afraid I'll do something drastic?".

"Nope".

"Good, because I'm fine. Well", he felt compelled to qualify, "I'm not fine as in 'fine'; I'm fine as in 'you don't need to worry about me'". The nephrologist nevertheless remained looking at his hands knitted together on the glass.

"I'm not worried about you. I just saw that Good Will Hunting has appeared on Netflix and I fancied a rewatch". Wilson remained hovering inside the threshold.

"I'm really not in the mood".

"What if I throw takeout and alcohol into the mix?".

"That could work", admitted House slowly. "Actually, you got any Coke?".

"Umm", Wilson fidgeted, "I think that's a bit hardcore for me, but if it keeps you relapsing back to Vicod-".

"-not cocaine, you moron. Coca Cola". House had not told Wilson this, but during the course of his isolation period since he had destroyed Cameron's trust, he had decided to cut back on the sauce. Nothing too dramatic, just an off day every now and then. Yesterday he had drunk, so tonight he would not; that kind of thing. This self-set rule was partly why, to avoid temptation, he only went home when absolutely necessary, and had even spent a couple of nights in the office easy chair.

"Oh, thank God", breathed Wilson with a sigh of relief. "I can't tell you how happy that makes me".

Despite his sadness, House snorted. "Sure. Would you even know where to get stuff?".

"I imagine Foreman has people, right?".

"Probably".

"Come on, then. Let's get out of here. I even transferred your crap from my old apartment to the new place, so you can stay over if you want".

"Ah, fuck it. Beats another night in this chair". The nephrologist hauled himself up, turned off the computer, and shrugged into his jacket and scarf.

"You've been sleeping here?".

"Every now and then", he shrugged. "There's nothing for me at home".

Neither doctor spoke as they took the elevator to the ground floor. Evenings at the hospital were always busy, and the pair had to navigate a path towards reception. As House signed his name on the sheet he glanced by chance through the glass double doors of the clinic. Cameron and Sebastian Charles were talking together. He couldn't tell the tenor of their conversation.

Wilson tracked his friend's gaze. "Wanna talk about her?".

"No. I think it's probably best not to".

"Heard through the grapevine that Charles is sticking round for a bit. Apparently-".

"-not talking about him, either", interrupted House shortly.

The oncologist nodded. Occasionally, he felt that maybe he had been wrong to investigate his friend prior to Christmas. Professional necessity against personal heartbreak: an equation he himself had attempted to balance more than once, usually with an outcome similar to what House was experiencing now. At the time, he had judged that House would always value medicine above everything else. Perhaps, given the waves of depression which currently radiated off his companion, he was wrong.

"Are you coming?". House had loped towards the main entrance.

"Yeah, sorry", called Wilson, snapping out of his reflections and catching up. "Let's go".


As Matt Damon's character drove off down the road and the credits began to roll, Wilson switched over to ESPN and muted the sound. "Man, that's a good movie".

"Mmm".

"Probably Robin Williams' best role, you reckon?".

"Mmm, yeah".

Wilson, recognising monosyllabism when he heard it, tried a different tack. "I think my favourite scene is the bit where it takes place in space, y'know?".

"Agreed, yeah, absolutely", murmured House.

"You didn't hear a word I said, did you?".

"Huh?". The nephrologist coughed and shook his head. "What's that again?".

"You've been rotating that Coke can in your fingers for the last twenty minutes".

House looked down as if noticing it for the first time and placed it on the coaster. "I like the feel of aluminium, what can I say?".

"Greg-", Wilson began, bracing himself.

"-oh, crap. First name time. Let me get comfortable". For a second that familiar sarcasm seemed to penetrate the layer of gloom, and he made a show of resting his feet on the table and cocking his head to the side.

"House-".

"-dude, you can't go back once you've started on the first name game. That's not how this thing works".

Wilson smiled and soldiered on regardless: "I know things are bad for you right now, but you'll always have me and Cuddy".

The other scowled. "Yeah, yeah. Blah, blah, friends, blah, blah, feelings. Heard that speech before".

"All I'm saying-".

"-just leave it. Please. I don't want to talk about this". House's voice was tight and his hands were clasped in his lap, the fingers on one playing with a frayed bandage edge on the other. Wilson wondered when the dressing had last been changed but thought better of asking.

"Well, what do you want to talk about?".

"Nothing".

"D'you mind if I talk?".

"As long as it's not about Cameron or Charles, knock yourself out".

"Mathilde and I broke up".

This did cause House to glance across sharply, meeting Wilson's eyes. He had been so caught up in a whirlwind of self-loathing that he had neglected to ask after his friend. Under normal circumstances, the oncologist was an open book, and House would generally have been able to detect ahead of time the faultlines in the other's relationship. But now? Nothing. "Why?", he asked, genuinely curious.

"We just sort of drifted apart. There was never enough time".

House nodded slowly. "How did she take it?".

"Actually, she was the one who suggested it. I think it was just a combination of factors. Sometimes things aren't meant to be".

"And how're you feeling?". The nephrologist would not normally have asked such an insipid question, but he felt a degree of kinship for Wilson, who, also, had bought the food and provided the drink. Well, provided the soft drink of choice, anyway. God, nights without alcohol were completely grim.

"Not as bad as you".

"Hah", scoffed House. "You're getting pretty bitchy now that you're a bachelor".

Wilson inclined his head, as if to acknowledge this new status. "Anyway, can't imagine stepping back into the dating pool for a while. I need time to recharge my batteries". He got to his feet and moved into the kitchen, bringing back more Thai green curry (a change from their customary pizza), a Coke for House, and a beer for himself.

The diagnostician walked around the living room while he cracked open the can. Though he'd seen everything a few times already, it never hurt to look again and it gave him something to do apart from wringing his hands in his lap. "I've decided that this is a nice place. You settled in?".

"Yeah", agreed the other, slightly disconcerted at the fact that House was asking mundane domestic questions. Clearly, the man was in a desperate state. "I'm liking it a lot: much closer, more compact, more modern. You wanna see the guest bedroom? Pretty much sorted now".

House turned from the bookcase and asked from across the room. "You mean my bedroom, right?".

"Yeah, of course", he grinned. "Got one of those patented foam mattresses for you".

"Been meaning to check those out myself. Cameron has one…". His voice trailed off and his shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly.

"Come on", said Wilson gruffly before the other could retreat back into solemn introspection, "I'll show you the new crib".

"You can't pull off 'crib', James", observed House archly.

"Now who's first-naming?", he retorted, leading the way down the corridor.

"I think Good Will Hunting is pretentious".

"Why? Will had to 'go see about a girl'. Not sure what's pretentious about that".

"Because you're a tragic romantic".

"Guilty", admitted Wilson.

"Me too", murmured House quietly under his breath, as Cameron's stricken face, her expression of naked hurt, flew before his mind's eye. "Me too".