Chapter 1:

Dr. Gregory House arrived home late in the evening. He was alone, like always. Somehow, he felt more alone than usual. Two weeks ago, one of the members of his diagnostic team, Dr. Eric Foreman, had turned in his letter of resignation. House had spent those two weeks tormenting him, and he definitely appeared to enjoy it. While he felt a certain sense of loss, knowing his team would no longer have Dr. Foreman’s expertise to rely on, House had no intention of letting him know that.

It wasn’t really the fact that Dr. Foreman was leaving that didn’t sit well with House. Deep down he knew that Foreman hadn’t truly learned everything he needed to know to be a true diagnostician. He would have to wait for Foreman to realize that for himself. What troubled House was Foreman’s reason, or the reason he offered for his choosing to leave.

Dr. Foreman had said that while he admired House’s skills and knowledge as a doctor, that he basically feared the possibility of becoming like him. Literally speaking, he didn’t want to turn into House. He didn’t want to adopt his ideals, his principles, or his behavior.

House had shrugged it off, telling Foreman that he was already more like him than he wanted to admit. He couldn’t help but wonder if who he was, who he had become, was really so despicable.

House’s best friend, Dr. James Wilson, and his boss, Dr. Lisa Cuddy, had both urged him to express to Foreman how important he was, that he regretted the possibility of losing him. House’s pride ran him, above all else. He seemed content to just let him go.

In the end, it was clear that Foreman really was planning to leave. House hastily fired another member of his team, Robert Chase. Dr. Chase, as far as House was concerned, had actually learned as much as he could. He’d learned to think creatively, to work outside of the box, to challenge the boundaries created by modern medicine. While the timing was awkward and probably driven by irrationality, the decision was a logical one, and House didn’t regret it.

One thing that House had gleaned from his forty-eight years on the planet, was that nothing ever worked out the way you planned for it to. He hadn’t really thought through his decision to fire Dr. Chase. It had been somewhat spontaneous. So he didn’t expect his final remaining team member, Dr. Allison Cameron, to follow suit and turn in a letter of resignation as well.

Dr. Cameron was naive. While she was an excellent physician, with more than adequate knowledge in her field, she had a long way to go as far as understanding human behavior. House was genuinely disappointed to see her go. At the same time, it figured. It figured that they would eventually leave him. House was surprised he’d maintained three common employees for the sum of three years. It had been a first for him, and would probably also be a last.

So when he arrived at home that evening, his apartment seemed a little emptier than usual. The package waiting on his doorstep had been send Federal Express. The small amount of joy that he managed to feel, seeing it there, wasn’t quite enough to make up for the chasm the day had created.

He slowly removed the new guitar from the bubble wrap and admired it. The one he’d played for so long had sported hundreds of replacement strings over the years. The wood was worn and faded, but it still played as well as it did the day he’d gotten it. House had ordered the new one as a reward to himself, for enduring such a massive upheaval. It was the end of an era and it had to be marked with some sort of visible trophy.

House held the new guitar in his hands. Everything about it was crisp and shiny. The brand new strings were taut and squeaked when he touched them. Even with his eyes closed, there was no denying it’s newness. He let his hands strum gently over the strings. While it was clear that it needed slight tuning, it even sounded new. He sighed and put the guitar down, leaning it against the wall behind his grand piano.

House limped through the livingroom and into the kitchen. He desperately needed a drink, especially at the end of a day such as the one he’d just had. He’d repeatedly declined his best friend’s suggestion that they go out for dinner or do something to distract themselves. House didn’t feel it was worth the effort. Some truths were too big and too real to try and ignore. It would be another, hardly needed lesson in futility.

On Monday he’d go back to work at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, the same place he’d worked for the last eight years. Dr. Foreman and Dr. Chase would be gone, probably never to return. Dr. Cameron would be working the first day in her series of last days. Dr. Cuddy would force him to conduct interviews and eventually hire a new team of fellowships. He’d have to get to know them, learn how to work with them, manage to save lives while hopefully teaching them something, all at the same time. Inevitably, they would learn to hate him, just like everyone else.

He poured a glass of Scotch. He hoped that between that and the two Vicodin he’d popped in the car, that he’d be able to relax enough to get some sleep. The chronic pain in his leg was just another reminder of how broken he’d become.

He zoned out on the couch, watching Sports Center cover the highlights of all the day’s supposedly important athletic events. He wasn’t too surprised to hear a familiar knock at the door. James Wilson wasn’t good at being turned down. He seemed to take it as some sort of challenge. If House told him he didn’t feel like going out, Wilson would call him five times just to be sure, and then show up anyway with pizza and beer. In the end, House would always give in, still refusing to admit that he preferred Wilson’s company over solitude.

House shouted, just loudly enough to be heard on the other side of the door. He was on his second glass of Scotch and was feeling a little light headed. The pain he normally felt had waned, just slightly. His leg almost seemed to be numb and he was enjoying it. He didn’t want to risk altering that by struggling to get to the door.

House heard a key go into the lock and the knob turning. Wilson pushed his way through, wearing a coat over his usual, professional office attire. He carried a plastic bag filled with Chinese food cartons. He held it up for House to see.

“I brought food. I know you said you didn’t want to go out, but...you need to eat.”

House resisted the urge to tell his friend that he didn’t feel like company. Somehow, he didn’t think it would make a huge difference anyway. He offered a weak smile instead.

Wilson closed the door and removed his coat with his free hand. House gestured to the television. His arm seemed heavy. He attributed it to the two glasses of Scotch.

“Since when is surfing a sport?”

“Since we have ESPN2.”

House nodded as Wilson put the food on the coffee table. He went to the kitchen, calling over his shoulder.

“You want a fork? They only gave us chopsticks.”

House nodded. Wilson grabbed two forks and came back into the livingroom, noting the empty glass of Scotch.

“Drinking much?”

“Not enough.”

House poured another glass and hesitated a minute before taking a swig. He savored the burn, wishing it were enough to cauterize the pain that had been slowly working it’s way to the surface over the past year.

“I got egg rolls.”

Wilson handed him a bag. House took one out and examined it, suspiciously.

Wilson saw his friend’s look.

“They’re the meat ones this time. I swear.”

House nodded and took a bite. Wilson reclined on the couch, munching on an egg roll.

“Anything on?”

“I was just flipping around the dial.”

Wilson nodded. House’s short attention span when it came to television viewing was a constant source of frustration for him. House could literally flip around the dial for hours, only spending thirty seconds or less on any given program.

Wilson noticed the listings.

“You want to watch a movie? You’ve got Pay Per View, right?”

House stared at Wilson, because he was almost sure that Wilson had just spoken in a foreign language. He felt himself smiling, wondering if Wilson was attempting some sort of practical joke. He should know by now, that was House’s arena.

“What'd you say?”

Wilson didn’t understand what was funny. He repeated himself, but this time House was certain that Wilson was trying to mess with him. He pointed at his friend accusingly, feeling the weight of his arm increasing. The Scotch had made his words come out slower and stickier than he’d intended.

“Not funny, Wilson.”

Wilson began to look concerned.

“I wasn’t trying to be...How much have you had to drink?”

House laughed, nervously. He tried to swallow, but it was difficult. He could see by Wilson’s expression that his words had not been an attempt at humor. He could tell by the inflection in his voice, that Wilson had asked him a question. He just wasn’t entirely sure what it was.

House waited a moment, the two of them staring blankly at one another. When he tried to speak, his mouth would not cooperate.

“I mur...surry?”

Wilson looked mortified.

“What?”

Wilson leaned across the couch and got very close to his friend. House found himself feeling uncomfortable at their proximity. Wilson grabbed both sides of his head and examined his eyes. He mumbled something, partly to himself and partly to House.

“Your pupils are uneven.”

House didn’t like the look on Wilson’s face. Although he was speaking, his words didn’t seem to make any sense, but he knew the sound of terror in a person’s voice.

In his fear, House could feel himself beginning to shake. It wasn’t the kind of trembling that usually accompanied being afraid. It was an involuntary, uncontrollable shaking, that seemed to be coming from somewhere within.

It was at that moment that House actually began to feel frightened. His eyes begged Wilson to do something, either put a stop to the sensation, or at least explain it. Wilson’s deep, brown eyes only mirrored his friend’s apprehension. He held onto House’s shoulders, continuing to speak words that only he could understand.

And then everything went black.