A/N: My 2nd House fic. This will be a longer work.

Hope you like this, Sydedalus. (Btw, if you haven't already, go read her House fic - Intervention. Brilliant.)

Excuse me if this sucks.

This fic will have NO PAIRINGS. NO SLASH. House and Wilson friendship.

Please Read and Review. Thank you.

Dislcaimer: Not mine, don't sue.



House didn't smile as the wind blew through his hair. He tuned out of the traffic noises and the city lights, staring hard at the windshield but seeing something else completely. His latest patient plagued him, as he tried to figure out the cause for ailment. It had been two days now, and the ducklings hadn't arrived at a conclusion. Meanwhile, the woman, Sarah Dyer, grew worse. Typical, thought House. His frown twitched. People liked death too much.

The tires flowed over the pavement as if the car were caught in a river current. It reminded House of trauma's latest, famous patient, a man who had almost drowned in the flood some two weeks ago. Damn rain wouldn't let up. Today had been dry, however. It almost made House suspicious. His blue eyes gleamed. The corvette kept flowing – one way, no turns. He didn't know where he was going. He just needed to drive – wind surrounding.

Friday. It was Friday night. He should go to a bar. Somehow, he didn't want to. Didn't feel like it. His typical bar visits were made in the company of Wilson, unless House was brooding more than usual. James had gone home – painfully clean house, rooms too wide, unloving wife. At least there was the dog. (Since when did Wilson have a dog?) House knew Wilson never drank at home. Somehow, only House made it okay for James.

He sighed with closed lips. Head titled. Tires flowed. Eyes glinted. Breathed. Leg twitched. His cane was lying in the back seat. He was tired – tired of his life, his job, himself. What little pleasure he used to have had dwindled away, courtesy of Vogler, Cuddy, Stacey, and the rest of the God damn world who wouldn't leave him alone.

Except for Wilson.

Wilson was okay.

But Wilson wasn't enough anymore. Not enough compensation for everything else. House was tired of being pissed off, tired of depression, tired of pain.

The pain was always there.

Not anymore.

Now, he was ending it.

For good.

His eyes sharpened. Windshield reflection.

Red light.


Horn complaints.

Fuck off.

He kept going.

House pulled into his driveway. Even with the river stilled, he stayed. He stared into the windshield. His fingers were loose around the keys. Moonlight made love to the corvette's red paint. The trees swayed – night wind. He had stopped thinking about Sarah Dyer. He had decided. Resolved. House jerked out of his car, slammed the door closed, grabbed his cane, limped inside. He threw the front door shut without turning around, plodded around in the dark, passed what few pictures he had – Wilson smiling, his mother, and himself with Wilson at a concert, both in full fan attire. House was actually smiling there. He couldn't remember if it had been real or not.

He flipped the light on in the kitchen, leaned into the refrigerator, and grabbed a beer. He didn't feel like scotch tonight. He slumped into a chair at the table and wrestled with the bottle cap for a good two minutes before it popped off. The foam slid down his throat in a cool act of comfort. Life did have its pleasures.

He left the kitchen, plopped on the couch, switched on the TV.

"Forecast predicts another night of rain and a flood warning for the Princeton-Plainsboro area. Don't want to be out on this Friday night, folks, and keep those cats inside."

"Oh, shut up," House said. He took another drink. Sighed. Turned off the TV.

He strained to get back on his feet, moved to the piano, stood sullenly before it. The keys were sleeping under the cover. He set his beer down next to the sheet music, propped his cane against the bench, took out his Vicodin bottle. He listened to the familiar rattling of pills as he unscrewed the cap. There was no voice in his head warning him of consequences. Wilson was only there for a second, a flash. He was smiling. House didn't.

He poured the whole bottle into his hand.

Piano started singing in his head.

He stared at the broken snowflake in his cupped palm.

Big snowflake.

He tipped his head back, dropped them in his mouth, grabbed his beer again.

First drink, second drink, third drink.

Hardly knew the pills were there.

He threw the empty bottle on the floor.

Hung his head. He wasn't Christ.

Heartbeat. (It was his cell phone.)

He sighed. No fucking peace. Took it out, flipped it open.

"What?" he snapped.

"Dr. House." It was Cuddy.

"Day's over, Cuddy. Not making me do clinic duty now."

"It's Wilson."

House froze.

"He's been in an accident, House."

His lungs sucked in on themselves.

"How bad?"