I don't own House or Wilson and this fiction is not intended to violate the owners' copyrights. It takes place about ten years after "Everybody Dies" and assumes that somehow Wilson has survived his cancer and House has gotten through the legal mess. Both have returned to Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. This is not in the same timeline as any of my other stories. Major character death.
The condo is empty. There's no House in the house. It's dark when I walk in. It's always dark now when I walk in. Maybe I should leave a light on. It's always silent. Maybe I should leave the radio on.
Bereavement leave is a joke, not a funny joke, just a joke. Four weeks and it's suddenly supposed to be over? Working helps, I guess. House, I've got to tell you about a clinic patient today. House, you wouldn't believe what the Accounting Department wants us to do… House, did you see that memo about the parking garage? There's no House in the house. I'll put the words into the hamper where I'm storing all my other words.
I took two months after Amber died. I went to grief counseling. I talked to her. I treated my best friend like dirt. None of it helped. House, I'd like to apologize for that. If only I could apologize for that. But I think you knew. Now I'm talking to you, but it's only words piling up.
They think I'm gay, that we were gay. No. It doesn't matter. Bereavement leave was a little tricky to get past Human Resources, we were roommates, not married. But I think they understood, or at least they let me after Foreman called them. Foreman says he's still looking for you and me together in the cafeteria, talking, laughing, me, buying you lunch, you stealing my French fries. I'm looking for us too.
I slogged through "Wuthering Heights" in high school, but I remember Heathcliff, begging Cathy to haunt him. Please, please haunt me, so I can hear you. I'm talking to you. Do you hear me?
I've got to tell you about this patient, House, she's in remission. It was a hard fight, but I think she's going to make it, at least for a while. I wish I could tell you. House, I have so much to tell you.
We got past your first funeral. We went on our road trip. We got past my cancer. We survived your second prison term, six months of hell, even if it was minimum security. Ten years since of Chinese takeout and pizza, of waving chopsticks and beers and laughing at the television. Ten years of conversation. I told you about my day. Sometimes you'd tell me about yours. Ten years of laughing and talking. House, I've got to tell you about your funeral. House, Cuddy came this time, would you believe it? House?
It's a good thing I didn't accumulate much stuff, living in hotel rooms after every divorce, because your stuff filled this place after you sold your condo. And after ten years, there's even more of your stuff. I haven't touched it. Our laughter and words filled this place.
Foreman would say, "Wilson, would you get word to House that..."
I would say, "Sure."
Foreman would say, "House, would you tell Wilson that..." Less of a sure thing.
I miss your long, long, involved medical metaphors. Cameron said, "I hate sports metaphors." I have your papers in journals. I have your two textbooks. I have some of your words.
I haven't cleaned out your office yet because I can't bear to do it. What do I do with all those beloved objects that remind me of you? They all have names.
Chase called me out of a meeting with a terminally ill patient. I ran to ER. I've never run so fast, but I couldn't catch you, and you were gone. I didn't get to say good-bye. Did you know I loved you? I never said. We weren't lovers. We weren't gay. I'm sorry we never talked about it. I know you loved me. I hope you know I loved you, I have always loved you.
The nurses in the clinic are flirting with me, seeing me as newly widowed. They're right, I am, but all any of them could be to me would be a distraction, not even relief. We weren't gay. You were the other half of my soul. "Bros before hos," you said once. I agreed just so you'd let me eat my sandwich. But it was true.
House, Foreman says that Chase wants to move from Head of Surgery to Head of Diagnostics. I think you would approve. Tell me, for God's sake, tell me if you approve. I guess I'll have to clean out your office.
There was a jazz concert at the university. I want to tell you about it. More words bottled up, with nowhere to put them.
There's a monster truck rally down at the Convention Center. The Terminator will be there. I can get tickets. Tell me if you want me to go. For God's sake, tell me.
The house has no House.
I'm drowning in words.