House took his time walking to his car. He had no reason to hurry, and besides the cold was numbing, and that was what he needed at this point, to be numb. He had put it all out there, as much as he was able to. And Wilson? And Wilson either saw it and ignored it, or saw it and was terrified of what he saw in House's blue eyes.
When House got home he poured himself 2 fingers of bourbon and waited for numbness on the inside. He removed the ever-present amber (God, how he hates that name, that colour) vial and swallowed 2 of its contents, allowing the acrid taste to mingle with the alcohol on his tongue. He stared at the dark television, but didn't turn it on. He looked toward the piano, but his muse was quiet. He looked at the guitar hanging on the wall, but he didn't see it. He only saw the person who bought it for him.
Wilson. How much more did he need it spelled out to him? House had already confessed his love to him, although in hindsight saying it after the promise of more pills probably wasn't the smartest choice he had ever made. Over the past few days, House had been certain that Wilson heard him, understood him. He thought Wilson felt it too, wanted it, dare he say wanted him. And now? Now he's done the only thing he can do, the only thing he can give to Wilson. His freedom. He hopes, he knows, Wilson will be back on his lumpy couch later rather than sooner, as he would like, but he will be back. He hopes he can stay numb enough to make it that long. He drains the rest of the bourbon, and heads alone to his bed.