I am so fast!! Hehe. Aren't you all happy with me! Hardly a week? Not even a week? What was it? Well, I love you all desperately, surprises in this chapter!

Chapter Twelve

"Lemierre's Syndrome," House calmly stated leaning over his Wilson in order to make sure that the IV needle was properly inserted into his forearm.

Coughing lightly, Wilson glanced up. But he could only hold the other man's gaze for a moment before he had to look away in shame. "You were right." He stared down at the corner of his blanket instead of at House; as if that would hide the scarlet flush that rose on his cheekbones.

"It's caused by Fusobacterium Necrophorum, they're gram-negative, obligate, anaerobic bacilli." House continued as if Wilson hadn't spoken. He'd never given so many truly irrelevant medical details to a patient, and he wasn't doing it now because Wilson was a doctor, but rather, because if he could ramble about the niceties he wouldn't have to deal with Wilson's real issue.

"I shouldn't have said the things I said to you. It wasn't fair…Greg…I…please… Greg…just answer me…"

"I should've—" And for half a second Wilson thought he was going to answer. "—seen it before, you had all the classic symptoms: pharyngeal infection, jugular vein phlebitits, disseminated intravascular coagulation, and—" He motioned for Wilson to open his mouth; which he did. "—yes, even pharyngotonsillitis." He moved back to fiddle with the IV tubing, trying to pretend to straighten it out…even thought it wasn't the least bit tangled. Wilson's hopes fell. He believed that House would do something, but more and more he was growing to believe that House would never face the issues and their friendship would disintegrate to feigned camaraderie

"Greg, please," James said, leaning up on his elbows. "listen to me. I know you don't want to talk about this, but just let me explain. I have to explain…" Wilson had no explanation though. He didn't know why he'd don it, but he thought he could make things right by an explanation…any explanation.

Greg was now playing with the monitors, but, strangely enough, he continued to look at the other man. Unlike James, who was still incapable of returning to gaze, and had addressed his entire previous speech to the blank television screen in the opposite corner from its intended recipient.

"We've put you on penicillin, metronidazole, and coumadin. It shouldn't take long before all the symptoms start to clear up. You should be back up again within the week, and after that, you'll just have to finish the full course of antibiotics and that's it."

James reached out and grabbed the other man's wrist and held it firmly, and for the first time, he managed to turn his eyes upward. "Thank you."

Finally, House decided to not ignore what was said, "You're my friend, of course I did it, it's my job, it wasn't a problem." Taking his wrist out of the death grip, he limped out of the room.

Wilson realized that he had, in one moment of uncontrollable rage, lost the man who had meant everything to him.

And he wept.

House leaned against the wall outside, massaging his leg gently, not because it was in any pain, but rather so that he'd have an excuse in case anyone asked why he was simply standing there.

He had no real hatred left.

No hatred left at all.

He was surprised by this. He had, for the longest time, wanted to hate Wilson, tried to hate Wilson, even believed that he had hated Wilson.

But he didn't…

Wilson's apology really wasn't needed; House knew that he wouldn't have reacted any differently. Previously, during fits of pain, he'd said things to Wilson he later regretted. He felt slightly odd having the man explain to him what he already understood. But Wilson was unready to forgive himself so easily…mostly because he couldn't understand why he had done it.

House didn't really understand that part of it either. He couldn't rationalize it, he tried, and time and time again he came down to the same answer…there was no answer. Wilson was frightened, surely, but Wilson was not the type of man who would so easily give up on life. He was ready to throw his whole life away because of his fear of the unknown. That didn't fit Wilson at all.

House's mind flashed, and he saw before his eyes an open page covered in miniscule words. He tried to focus his eyes in order to cut through the gray haze of the vision to discover what it was that his mind was trying to show him.

Then—flash—highlighted, almost as if it were a part of a cartoon, two lines bounced out from the page.

Haze lifted and crept out of his mind on padded feet. And, left in its wake was House, grinning insanely, as he raced—as quickly as he could—back to his office. People slid against the walls, frightened by his maniacal smile, but he didn't notice any of them. His gaze had narrowed to a small point, the tip of an arrow flying towards his target.

The door slammed open making the adjoining glass panes shutter. Throwing his cane down on his desk, he began ripping medical books from his shelf and scattering them across the room. Pages fluttered like snow, hopeful; crumbling, then, and crashing like murdered doves—discarded. Dozens of these failed prayers littered the floor and covered the couch, left to be trodden on the way broken dreams so often are.

House began to doubt that the vision was grounded in reality but instead was only his mind playing games with him. The desires of his heart were too readily becoming the beliefs of his mind.

"What are you doing?!" Cuddy dashed through the door knocking aside a book that had been about to hit her in the forehead.

House didn't answer her.

He'd found it.

It was old, red cloth bound with frayed edges. Yet, he held it as carefully between his hands as if it were made of gold leaf and liable to crumble if handled to brusquely. He opened it just as carefully, turning each page ever so slowly.

Cuddy watched enchanted, she'd never seem him so reverent. Was it really reverence that stayed his hand or was it fear at what he could discover upon the next page?

He looked up and noticed Cuddy for the first time. That would've been Wilson, it would've been Wilson standing in his office asking him "what the hell are you doing?!" Just the thought of the other man brought a soft tear to his eye.

Cuddy watched it silently fall and hit the open book. She almost wanted to dash forward and snatch it from the air to protect that book he had been treating so deferentially.

It fell perfectly onto the page, sinking into it immediately.

House had watched it fall.

The oval droplet was encircling the word Lemieer's.

He lifted the book slowly and held it in front of him, Cuddy was reminded of a holy man bearing his holy book out in front of him. House's face seemed so deep, so wise, as if he held in his grasp the secret to all mankind's salvation.

Lemieer's Syndrome may occasionally present with neurological symptoms, especially irregular changes in personality.

Cuddy was sure that he read it off, but she never heard the words fall from his lips. It was as if an ethereal voice had echoed from the walls around her, announcing it for all the world to hear.

House had the answer to salvation. Not all mankind's, but all of mankind that mattered. Wilson would forgive himself; House would understand why it had happened. It would all be alright.

Cuddy felt tears spilling across her own face.

And for the second time in two days she found herself locked in House's embrace as they both sobbed in relief.

And House took him back into his arms. Back into arms that had been vacant for so long. Arms that could be completely filled only by him. And the two men wept. No need for words, not words of forgiveness, not words of sorrow. Tears spoke every one. They both understood everything now. And there was no need for anything else but their never ending embrace. A vow to the endurance of their love.

And House learned to love again.


He was the one to pick up the pieces. The one who caught me when I fell. The one who saved me when death was but a breath away. The one who forgave me when I thought I had lost everything.

He was the one to pick up the piece, sort them out, and put them back together. To fight every moment with the same list of symptoms and then sob in ecstasy as every one of those worries melted away.

I remember each and every tear on his face.

I remember the smile.

I remember the way he held the book out to me.

I remember the way I cried and he took me in his arms and held me, just held me there. And I was for once, perfectly safe, perfectly whole. My life was not broken any longer. His life was not broken any longer.

The pieces…our pieces…we found that they could only be made whole again when they were put together.

I'm the only one who can get through to him…but he's the only one who can get through to me. We're equally weak, equally dependent, equally shattered. House has his Vicodin and I have my House. Addicts in our own right.

I thought he could never pick up the pieces, I thought he would leave me to the wolves to fend for myself.

I was wrong.

I was so wrong.

House has more strength than I will ever posses, but maybe he has that strength because of me, and I have mine because of him. We only thought that our lives were broken because we didn't see that they had to be together in order to be complete.

He picked up my pieces, his pieces, our pieces, and he taught me how to go on. He gave me the chance to go on.

A rose bursting into bloom, my world was reborn covered in tears like thick drops of dew, but without the tears it was only half as beautiful.

Yes, my faithful readers, that is the end.

It made me cry to write it. I hate to see this story draw to a close because I do believe it's one of the best ones I've ever written but I know there's more in store for me. Hehe. And more in store for the lovely characters I've played with here.

I love you all so much and that you for your support, encouragement and critiques they're all appreciated.

So please take this one last chance to review…or maybe take it as your first chance, I'd really love to have opinions of the completed work. My love to all.

Love and music are forever