Wilson sat stewing at the bus stop. He couldn't believe House had just driven on by. But at the same time he wasn't exactly surprised. How had things gotten so screwed up? He was living in a hotel, accounts frozen, car gone, practice suffering, and now, he was losing House too. The weight of how far his life had fallen from where he once thought it would be was crushing. Even when he had decided that the only things that worked for him were work and his relationship with House, he felt he had something. Now, even that was in jeopardy.
House couldn't stop thinking about Wilson sitting on the bench waiting for the bus. He had been right about one thing. The onus was now on House to "do something." He pulled his bike up in the garage of his building instead of the sidewalk, to avoid getting a ticket. He paused for the briefest moment, dug out his cell phone and searched his contact list for her number. He selected it with a withering sigh and then climbed into the vette. He put the phone on speaker and started on his way back to the hospital, as he waited for her to pick up.
"Hello," she said in a curious unassuming tone.
"Stacy, it's Greg. I, I need to see you," his voice was strained, this was harder than he thought it would be.
"What's going on?" she was genuinely curious, and a little concerned, after the send off Greg had given her, she hadn't really expected to hear from him.
"I need some legal advice. I need a meeting. Can you come out here?"
She couldn't refuse him. He hadn't refused her when she came to him for help, and she knew if he was asking for help, the situation must be dire.
"Yeah, I can be there in a couple of hours."
"Okay" he said matter-of-factly, reaching over and clicking his phone closed with his left hand, the pain in his right shoulder forbidding too much movement.
He pulled up to the hospital and made a U-turn to pass by on the same side the bus would. Wilson was still the only one sitting on the bench, and he'd have looked downright pitiful if House had had any pity left to give. But he didn't, he had truth and he had the feeling of wanting to set things right, and he had sadness about what his life had become, but that was nothing new. Wilson was looking off in the distance, eyes unfocused when he pulled up. House came to a stop and stared at his friend, waiting for him to look over. After a few long moments, brown met blue and the two men found themselves staring into each other's eyes having a wordless conversation like so many they had had before.
"Come on," House said quietly, beseechingly.
Wilson sighed, bringing his hand to his head, tracing his brow, he gave the slightest nod, "Yeah," he said pulling his lips into a straight line. He got in. He had nowhere else to go, and truth be told nowhere else he wanted to be.
They drove along in silence for a few minutes until House broke it.
"I did something."
"O-kay," Wilson said waiting for House to offer more.
"I called Stacy. She'll be here in a couple of hours."
"Okay," Wilson said with more certainty, quietly supporting House, as was his way.
They were silent the rest of the way back to House's building. House parked in the handicapped spot and they quietly entered the apartment. House tossed the keys on the table, shrugged out of his jacket, wincing when he had to move his injured wing, and settled in on the couch, leaning forward in his seat, resting his chin on his cane. Wilson recognized this posture, it was House's 'I'm feeling the repercussions of my actions and have something to say' position, so he waited to hear what House had to say. He looked at House expectantly.
House looked up and met his eyes, "I'm sorry," House said so quietly that if Wilson hadn't seen it in his eyes he might have doubted it had been uttered at all.
Wilson had nothing to offer, but a clipped, "yeah."
Having said what he wanted to say, House struggled up and made his way to the bedroom, "work to do," he said in explanation.
Wilson just sat on the couch.
House didn't really have work to do. He already knew everything he needed to know for this case, for his case. He already knew that between him and Stacy, they'd figure something out. He also already knew that that something would probably entail him being lane bare and vulnerable, and having to seek some sort of therapy to make it fly. He knew it might mean he'd have to stop practicing for a time, but better him than Wilson, which seemed to be the choice he was given.
Despite what others may think of him, he knew he didn't have a conversion disorder, nor did he think he was a true addict, not the way everyone else thought he was. If he were, there would be no pills left for the cops to find in his place. He was addicted to not being in pain. He was addicted to not feeling impotent and vulnerable at every turn. Maybe his fear of pain was unhealthy, but then so was having to live with it every moment of every day. The truth of his own words echoed in his head.
"Pain makes us make bad decisions. Fear of pain is almost as big a motivator."