He was cautious. The brown eyed pretty boy friend of that druggie doctor he'd put away last year looked pissed. Not that he would be stupid enough to try anything in a police station. But he'd offered him a seat and pretty boy had refused, remaining standing in front of his desk.

"Okay," he said patiently. "What can I do for you Doctor Wilson?"

The answer surprised him. "You knew he wasn't selling his pills. You knew he was just a messed up junkie who'd pissed you off and you did it anyway."

He shrugged his shoulder. "It wasn't my call. He had too many. You know how they feel about that sort of thing nowadays."

"Anyway. It might do him some good. He might even be reformed when he comes out," he said jovially, leaning back in his chair. "How many years will that be from now?"

"He's dead," said the other man levelly. "He committed suicide in his cell last night."

Wilson put a photograph on the desk, but Tritter didn't look down at it.

"You never saw his leg did you? Muscle damage and nerve damage," said Wilson. "No matter how big of a jerk he was, no matter what a prick he was, no matter if we all thought he was an addict, no matter what he stuck up your ass, his leg meant that without help he was in constant agonizing pain."

Wilson laughed softly. "And they gave him Tylenol and told him to suck it up. I'm amazed he lasted as long as he did. You should have visited him. By the end there wasn't much left of that arrogant jerk that you hated so much. If you wanted revenge you would have loved it."

Tritter looked up at Wilson, deadpan, not missing a beat. "So he's dead. So what? He didn't matter to anyone."

"That's where you are wrong Detective," he said. The contempt evident in his voice.

"He may have been a buraku, but he mattered."

Tritter frowned, but Wilson didn't seem to notice.

"And you took that away from him."

It was only after Wilson had gone that Tritter looked down at the photograph. It was one of those 'commemorate your stay photographs' they suckered tourists into buying. It showed House and Wilson standing awkwardly in front of a sign with the words 'Atlantic City Grand Plaza' emblazoned on it in pink neon.

House was clearly scowling at the photographer, one hand pointing and the cane half raised. Wilson looked tired, harassed and resigned, an apologetic smile on his face: one hand going for his wallet and the other reaching for House's cane.

How could that jackass have ever mattered to anyone?

"Are you sure it's okay for him to watch this?" asked her husband.

She smiled as she watched Clancy giggle. "Oh come on. He loves it… and besides after watching these he is never going to take alien abduction seriously ever again." She peered closer at the television. "But what is Mulder doing? Is that a porno video?"

Kyle smiled. "No thanks. I don't drink. Not anymore."

They stood by the grave. "She had thirteen wonderful years: a testament to her spirit and determination. Let us say a prayer for Andie."

Sister Augustine looked out of the plane's window. They were coming in to land. Tomorrow they would distribute the food and give Doctor Charles his TB medicine.

Olive Kaplin looked in her lunchbox. She groaned. Rice cakes again.

"Mother, what the hell do you think you are doing?"

"I'm going to Vegas and getting married."

"But he's twenty years younger than you," he said in exasperation.

She winked at him. "I know."

Cuddy watched her husband as he cradled their baby boy for the first time. She was glad she had waited. He had been right. She didn't just like this man, she loved him.

He looked up at her. "So, what shall we call him?"

Wilson rubbed his hands over his eyes. He wasn't as young as he used to be and the long hours took it out of him. His glance fell to the corner of his office. It stood there, propped up, as it had done for years, its owner never coming back to collect it.

He mattered.


He admired his handy work. Not quite as good as a pyramid, but on limited resources… not bad. Maybe it wouldn't last for eternity, but then nothing did. The second to last thing he would ever do, etched into a prison cell wall:

House was here.