Title: Not Supposed to Go Like That
Author: JmacsGurl15
Rating: PG
Fandom: House, MD.
Pairings: None.
Summary: A response to Link-Luvr’s fic, Immune to Death.

Disclaimer: I don’t own the show, or the lyrics. They are Fox’s and Rascal Flatts’

It's not supposed to go like that
It's not intended to end that way
Life is a journey constantly turning
Down an unknown path
But it's not supposed to go like that

Wilson had always known this day would come, he never even gave it a seconds resounding thought. House, though hell bent on his “I am god” theory, was, in effect, just a human, and therefore, he, like every other breathing organism on earth would eventually submit themselves wholly to the end of days.

Every life stops, no one could go on forever, he knew that, but it didn’t stop the pain he felt, the longing in his heart to wrestle death to the ground and take his best friend back from its evil clutches.

“It happens” That was always his only response when a patient died. No grievances, no tears, no remorse, just that one simple statement, standing alone to prove his evident disregard for morality. A statement that would survive forever- if only to prove House wrong.

And Wilson knew that his best friend had been a time bomb, a heart waiting, watching for the sands of time to run out, for his habits to finally get the best of the stubborn crippled son-of-a-bitch. He knew it was coming, and perhaps that’s what kept him clinging to hope, clinging to those rehab fliers, and empty promises so long, simply the fear of the inevitable.

Yet, in the back of his mind, Wilson couldn’t help entertaining those same inane thoughts. He’s House, for Christ’s sake, it’s not supposed to go like that. Surely he’s to evil to die, to great, too invulnerable, something.

House had always been so strong, such a picture of placidity in the face of torment that in nearly brought Wilson to his knees. He had kept people out, kept the world itself at an arms length, so as not to make some grand attachment; he felt that relationships were only a pesky reminder that he must- at least attempt to think beyond himself. He had damned himself to a minuscule wake, a funeral precession that consisted of five: Chase, Cameron, Foreman, Cuddy, and Wilson.

He had been wrong. Nothing could prove that better than the Vicodin bottle he had kept poised at the ready in his pocket, the wonder drug that had dulled his every pain, every little emotional flutter he had ever experienced for years on end. It had, in effect, also been the little wonder drug that snuffed out his life, but it knew that Gregory House wasn’t invincible, those little pills had outlined his humanity.

It was cold and windy as Wilson stood before the marble stone, and said goodbye to his friend for the final time.

Just as cold as House’s heart, his shoulder, and now as still as the man himself.

Wilson tried to choke back the sobs, rising in his throat as he gathered himself to speak; just because he knew that if House had been there he would have scoffed at such a blatant display of “weakness”. He also knew that House wasn’t coming back this time, they’d be no tell-tell signs of wood against his office door Monday, before he barged in without welcome, no one to scarf his sandwich, and leave him hungry. It was over, and Wilson cried, simply because he didn’t want to end up with a fate like his friend’s. He wanted to live, and breathe and die gracefully. He wanted the big funeral, with people who cared, many people who he had shown compassion to in his time on earth. He wanted to be remembered, just as he was sure to remember House.

Taking one final sweeping look at the stone, and he whispered one last sentiment, to the snarky bastard he’d come to know and respect.

“House, I love you man, but even you aren’t Immune to Death.”