It's easy to shoot a messenger. But what happens when that messenger is your best friend? And your best friend is lying in a coma because he cared enough to tell you the message?

Hi guys, this is a little something from me. I just finished watching Season Four of House and I couldn't help but think this was appropriate as well as all the other little House fic's I'm planning. (House addict.)


This is from Wilson's point of view after Amber's death when he goes to see House. For now it's a one-shot, but depending on what people think I might add another chapter. Tell me what you think?

Warning: Angst, Dark themes, slightly Abstract, slight language.

Disclaimer: Don't own, but think is awesome.


'I hate you.'

Do I believe that? As I stare at you lying there. You look wasted, your skin stretched, pasty pale and clammy. You look sick.

You are sick.

So why doesn't that seem to excuse your sins? What you've done…

What you've done?

What have you done?

You tied up her leg when she was bleeding, you were hypnotised, you forced yourself to hallucinate, and you forced yourself to remember until your heart stopped.

Now this. You let your brain be probed with electricity… electricity! So that you could what…?

Do what? Tell me something, save someone that maybe you didn't even care about? Or maybe you did care about her? Maybe it wasn't anything to do with anything … maybe it was just your obsessive need to solve things.

No. You've never risked this much. But tell me, who were you risking it for? What was it for? To tell me that message? To give me the news that…everything was in vain.

You did all that, and I…I can't help but feel this ripping feeling in my stomach every time I look at you.

You went out drinking…you called Amber.

And she came.

And you left.

And she left.

And you got on the bus.

And she got on the bus.

And now you're lying here.

And she's gone.

In what bizarre, twisted way does that work? Are you asking yourself the same question? You who have been in pain for years, who is always miserable, who hates everything…are you asking yourself why you didn't die instead?

Would I have preferred that?

No, the thought makes me feel even worse! No matter how much the very look of you makes me feel sick…to think of you as dead…


Would I prefer it?


If you took Amber's place? As fate probably had planned, as fate would have done unless your contract with the devil didn't save you.


You didn't want it either. You're not that cold hearted bastard that you pretend to be… you're just very good at pretending. To good at pretending.

How much of me actually got convinced?

You who can cure the incurable, you who have saved so many who were already left for dead…but when it finally came down to it…one fine, minor detail flipped everything from possibility to impossibility. And impossibility in your books…that's…

Ambers dead.

I came to tell you that but you're still asleep. Cuddy's holding your hand, did you wake up?

You know we woke Amber up? And I lay with her and held her as she died.

You did everything you could, and then you went that step further and did the things that you knew you couldn't…

The things your body couldn't take, and now…now you look like death warmed over.

You did everything, you respected my wishes…my irrational wishes but also did what you're so famous at doing.

Being the famous doctor House. Running around between the lines of law and insanity just to answer a puzzle, only this time you've been to a place you never went to before.


I'm sorry.

You never did anything but be yourself, you usual selfish self-loathing egotistical genius self, you didn't tell Amber to come and get you, you didn't make her get on the bus. Technically you saved her, you tied up her leg, and if that had been the only thing in the matter you would have kept her alive…

Flu pills. The minor detail.

And it was nothing to do with you.

I watch as your eyes steadily open, flickering around the room as sad recognition dawns in them. You recognise the scene, the characters, and the story of this play.

Amber's dead. Exit stage right. Famous Doctor House wakes from his coma, and Faithful Best Friend Wilson enters Stage Left to forgive him, pity him, care for him…and pour out his soul to him.

Your eyes catch mine, and you watch, holding your breath, waiting for something… anger…tears…something.

Not this. Not this blank face. You can't deal with blank faces, because that's what you see in the mirror every time you look at who you are.

Ambers dead.

How else am I supposed to react? What did I blink and miss?

What if I hadn't been in the hospital?

What if I hadn't let her buy those pills?

What if I had picked up my phone and gone to see you?

What if you had never gone out drinking at all?
I leave. I can't stand to stare at you…don't look so injured, for God sake please. Don't look like you expected it, like your deserve it, don't add it to your pile for self hate.

It's not you House.

It's me.

I want to shoot the messenger. The messenger who told me the only woman I have ever really loved was going to die, and that it was inevitable.

I want to shoot the messenger so bad, because what else am I suppose to do? Who do I throw my rage at, my anger? Who can I blame for this? You? God? Fate? Amber? Me?

Who's fault is it that life is…so…black.

Don't hate yourself House. Don't. Please.

I'm the one in the wrong, I'm the one who can't vent this anger…who knows that you won't let me vent this anger unless I do it in secret…

Because I want to shoot the messenger. The messenger who's going to tell of Amber's death.


That's me.

And I know you would never ever let me do that.

Hope you enjoy! Leave a review, and tell me if you want me to continue or not?