Uber depressing. Mental image popped into my head and I just had to write it. Wilson's POV.

One Down, Two To Go

They walk the short expanse of dew drenched grass together. Wilson’s done it so many times now that it barely requires any sort of active cognition. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think his loafers had forged a permanent trail from the curb where he usually parks, to the place where Amber's body was laid to rest.

When they’re within feet of their destination, he hangs back. He lets House take the lead, stands behind and watches the other man seat himself on the stone bench beside her grave.

It feels strange having House here, like he doesn’t belong, like he’s intruding on something intensely private. Wilson isn't close enough to hear. But he wonders if House is talking to Amber, if he's saying goodbye, saying he’s sorry for her death, or just praying desperately to his own Housian version of a higher power for some kind of peace. All he can see are the slight movements of House’s shoulders, which slowly begin to tremble and eventually hitch and shake.

Wilson instinctively looks away, because he’s already in an extremely vulnerable state and it just hurts too much to witness someone else in pain. His eyes land on some garish, brightly colored Christmas display some well meaning family member left on a child’s grave. Styrofoam candy canes and silver tinsel seem so out of place here. It just feels wrong to celebrate death, that someone would go out of their way to remind themselves of what they've lost, of all the holidays and special moments they and the deceased will no longer be able to share.

Amber was so young, only twenty-seven. But by comparison, a child dying would be even more of a tragedy, especially if it were the result of some senseless accident and not a disease or illness. Wilson muses about what it might be like to not only lose a child, but to be responsible for that child‘s death. He imagines carrying the weight of that burden every day and he gets lost in that thought, until the sound of House trying to suck snot back up into his nose draws him out again.

He glances hopefully at his friend. Barely five minutes have passed. And even though he has no logical reason to believe House will have already recovered, clearly that hope is in vain. House’s shoulders are still shaking.

Wilson doesn’t know what to say, or if he should even say anything at all. God, after everything that’s happened and all the ways they’ve hurt each other, he’s fresh out of platitudes. And it's not like his friend would believe them anyway. This isn’t a patient or a family member of a patient, or even his brother or his mom or dad. This is House.

He could say that he’s sorry. But he honestly wouldn’t be sure what he’s sorry for. He only knows that he is. He's sorry for this, for how he suspects it might feel to be in House's position, and that there's nothing he can do to alleviate that pain.

It was Dr. Nolan’s idea to come here, to do this. Closure, he’d insisted. House didn’t just need absolution. He needed some official way to put a cap on this portion of his life and walk away from it forever. So Wilson brought him here, stood beside him as he picked out a flowers from the nearby roadside stand. And even though he didn’t say so, he was admittedly surprised that House sprung for the calla lilies, which were priced by the stem, instead of the carnations or bulk bouquets. He wonders how House could have known those were Amber's favorite flowers. Chances are, he picked up on it during one of his few visits to their apartment. He probably saw some displayed in a vase. Or maybe he just guessed. But it's yet another reminder of how closely House pays attention to things, and how those tiny details never evade him.

Wilson grits his teeth, because her death is still House’s fault and it still hurts that she's gone. The difference now is he can see that he’s not the only one who’s hurting, and there’s no reason for either of them to do it alone. In fact, they might actually be better off hurting together.

He carefully sinks down onto the bench, completely clueless as to what will happen next. Everything about this is completely new. House being willing to confront his own pain is new. He assumes House won’t appreciate the close proximity or being ogled at, while he’s sitting here like this. But he knows he needs to say or do something, knows that it’s necessary and right.

He flinches when House’s fingers slide into his own, squeezes their palms together with a peculiar urgency, like a small child arming himself with an adult so he can cross a busy intersection. It’s not that Wilson doesn’t want to be touched by House. It’s just that he’s never really been. Not like this anyway, or with the same air of affectionate helplessness.

The ache in his heart is replaced with a peculiar brand of comfort, something which he honestly didn’t even think House was capable of providing. But the moment drags on and on, until the appropriate point for him to have responded verbally has passed. He feels like a fool for not being able to come up with anything suitable, when there is clearly so much that needs to be said.

“I love you,” he finally offers, wishing he‘d said it sooner, wishing he‘d said it the second that naked fear appeared on House‘s face. He wonders why he can never seem to remember all the good his friend does and at which point that trend began. He never meant to forget.

House leans into him and utters hoarsely whispered apologies. I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t have hurt you like that on purpose. I did everything in my power to try and save her, really I did. And Wilson can hear all the things that aren't being said: I would never intentionally do anything to cause you pain or drive you away, because you’re all I’ve got, the most important thing in my life.

And suddenly the fog is lifted and Wilson can see through the subtext again. The rock solid facade is gone, leaving beside him the friend he met so many years ago.

They stay for a hour. But they don’t talk. They don’t even look at one another. They just hold hands and cry.

As they stand up and make their way back to the car, Wilson prays that the worst is over, because they still have two more graves to visit.