A/N: Some people requested for John's POV, so here it is. Maybe I'll do a Wilson POV later on? Also; the premise of the story was thought of before Birthmarks, and the first chapter was written before it was released. So it's kinda AU. This one's longer too.
Disclaimer: Don't own House, MD.
You stir in the sleep at the sound of a phone ringing, and you blink twice as you try to figure out what the hell is happening. Who calls at – you glance at the alarm clock – almost two in the morning? You hope that if you ignore the shrill ringing long enough, it will go away, but it doesn't.
"Crazy people, calling so late at night" you grunt into your pillow, then look up at your wife. The bags under her eyes makes you feel guilty for ignoring the call. "Should I take it?"
But she sighs and shakes her head, and she says something you can't hear, because your eyelids have already shut down and you're fast asleep.
You don't sleep very long until you wake again, but you still dream. You dream about a marine, with soft brown eyes and he reminds you of someone. And he just looks so sad. He's holding something in his hands, but you can't see what it is, but you feel strangely guilty and the guilt is choking you. But you never feel guilty. Why are you feeling guilty?
The marine now looks more like a sailor, and he gives you whatever he's holding. It's a piece of cloth, and you look down at it—
—But you never see what it is, and you never will, because a loud thud from the kitchen wakes you up again. You can't see Blythe lying beside you, so naturally you become worried, and get out of bed.
And when you reach the kitchen you're wide awake because there she is, your precious Blythe, on the floor.
She's not moving.
"Blythe!" you shout out of sheer surprise and fear.
You kneel down beside her and you use standard marine training to assure yourself that she's all right, just unconscious. You calm down and it's only now that you notice the phone – that blasted phone – that's lying on it's back like an upside-down beetle. A faint voice comes from it.
Hello? Hello? Mrs. House, are—are you still there?
You realize that whatever the person on the other line had say must've shocked your wife so hard that she fainted, and so, you pick it up again.
"This is John House," you say in your firm military voice, the one that Blythe always made fun of in your dearer moments.
"Oh, Mr. House, I—" the man on the other line begins but abruptly stops, and to your astonishment, his voice is coated with sorrow and is cracking, something that you couldn't hear before.
He sounds like he's crying.
Why would he be crying?
"Who is this?" you ask in the same military voice.
The man inhales and speaks again, voice steadier. "I'm… It's James Wilson, Hou—I mean, your son… your son Greg's friend"
Your eyes narrow slightly at the sound of your son's name, and you glance down at Blythe. What had your anarchistic son done that could've shocked her this badly? Been reckless again?
"What has Gregory done this time?" you ask in a sharper tone.
James Wilson has to pause and breathe several times as he tells you the same story that he told your wife; that Gregory suffered a stroke shortly after coming out of his brief coma, that the bus crash had damaged his brain too much already, that they did everything they could.
He doesn't need to tell you that "everything we could" mean "it wasn't enough".
Your grip on the telephone slackens and your eyes become softer but grimmer too as you divert your gaze from Blythe to the kitchen floor. You thank James Wilson for calling, still with your military voice, then you hang up the phone.
It's only a couple of minutes later, when Blythe starts to stir, that you realize that your son really is dead.
As she clutches onto you and cries, you can't help but think that children shouldn't die before their parents. No matter how anarchistic, obnoxious and rude they might be.
And the guilt starts to choke you again, but you still don't know why.