The First Step

Summary: Loved the finale, but I couldn't wait until the fall for House and Wilson to reconcile their friendship. So here's my version. A little sad, but in a good way. Rated one hankie.

Characters: House Wilson friendship

Rating: T for a couple of words

Warnings: Spoilers for last 5 episodes of Season 4

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Never will.

A/N: My most enthusiastic thanks to bookfan85 for her sharp eyes and willingness to beta this story, however due to my obsessive need to tweak I'm solely responsible for any and all errors. Please R&R. Concrit welcome.

James Wilson scanned the room for an available seat, and chose an isolated one along the periphery. He needed to be alone for a little while longer. He was jumpy and depressed, and as a doctor he knew his body was on the outskirts of revolt. His life was going to get worse, but for now he clutched the wooden chair like it was a life raft thrown from the Titanic.

He was taking stock of his life.

He tried to remember the good times, the "firsts" in his life, like graduating high school with honors, his first love, the first patient that beat the odds and survived. But, the devils within laughed and whispered, "Remember your friend Jon who died in the car crash coming home from the all-night graduation party? The terminal patients looking forward to their last dose of painkillers? Remember your last kiss with Amber? Yeah, everybody dies."

He pinched the bridge of his nose. He needed to stop this. His hand automatically patted the outside of his jacket, feeling for the new vial of anti-depressants. He swallowed the first couple earlier today with some strong coffee. Unfortunately, he'd been off the medication since he met Amber, and the new prescription wouldn't take effect immediately. He would battle his demons alone for now.

His mind was spiraling down again. He was groping blindly in the darkness of a picture show that continually looped a retrospective of his life.

He couldn't drag his thoughts away from his train wreck of relationships. All the "last times" in his life. The "gotchas" at the end of cruel practical jokes.

He didn't realize when he saw Jake in that run-down neighborhood that it would be for the last time. It was his friend stalking him and coaxing him to talk that made him face the fact that he would never see his brother again.

Like the last time he made love to Amber, he never dreamed the next time he saw her he would be lying to the attending that he was the next-of-kin.

When he last played Bosnia to House's Yugoslavia and Amber's Croatia he never thought he would ever need to risk his best friend's life for the woman he loved.

His last day with Amber was the first time he couldn't bear to stand close to his friend as he fought to recover in the ICU. He needed space, as if distance could cushion his pain, but the distance and silence stretched out for months undercutting the bedrock of their friendship.

Wilson scrunched further into the skeletal back of the seat that continually stabbed him in the spine, and turned his eyes away from the new arrivals looking at him as they dragged their folding chairs across the wooden floor. The shrill squeaks ending in "awks" reminded him of the pub-like atmosphere that less than a day ago he considered to be his refuge.

At first, it was curiosity that led him to Sharrie's, like a rubber necker slowly cruising by the scene of an accident.

It was the last place that the two people he loved met and shared a drink without him. The last place before either sustained injuries he was helpless to fix.

He stopped, looked the place over, and had a drink while thinking about the shoulda's and coulda's that rippled across his mind. He recreated the meeting in his head over and over again, but it didn't satisfy him. One trip became two, then three, and soon he was there every evening. Accepted as one of the regulars, he raised his hand in an abbreviated salute when any of the other human fixtures made eye contact with him.

He wasn't sure when the bar became comfort for its own sake. He worked out a routine with the bartender. He dropped his keys and credit card on the counter in return for his first glass of bourbon. He drank without limit. Signed the receipt. Pocketed the card. Taxied home. Picked up his keys during his lunch break, and downed a quick one before returning to the hospital.

He'd always chose a table near the bar and spent the rest of the night imagining a drunken House calling his number, and Amber coming to the rescue.

It never got old and the ice never had a chance to melt before he made the acquaintance of his next drink.

Night after night he drank one bourbon after another until the bartender told him it was the last one before closing.

Until last evening.

He reached his arm out for his drink, and saw a hand with fingers spreading across the top and over the rim, pressing the glass down against the table, preventing his hand from lifting the liquid to his lips.

His body tensed as his eyes followed the arm up until he was looking directly into piercing blue eyes set into a long face that towered above him.

The two were nearly touching. It was the first time they were physically this close since he assisted Chase.

He relinquished his hold, and House lifted the glass to his nose, sniffing the golden brown liquid with disgust, "Wilson, couldn't you destroy your liver with a more expensive brand of rotgut?!" House pulled a chair squealing in protest from another table and brought it over to Wilson's. "Don't just sit there, buy me a round."

Without saying a word, he caught the attention of the tattooed man behind the bar and mimed a glass tipped to his lips, and then raised his arm in a circling motion pointing toward House and himself.

"For someone who only drank beer and girly cocktails, you're damn good at impersonating a bar fly."

Wilson couldn't control the lame reply from slurring through his lips, "Yeah, well it's always good to have a skill."

The two were quiet as the bartender gave House a curt nod, and placed two drinks on the table. One in front of the gruff doctor, and the other along side its twin in front of the oncologist.

Wilson reached and tossed back his first drink before saying what was on his mind. What he should have said months before.

He regretted that the diagnostician's eyes stared at his unsteady hands. It wasn't his only regret.

He looked like a mourner at a funeral. His voice murmured a requiem, "I'm sorry, House."

His former friend's response matched his own in exact pitch and emotion, "I thought you hated me."

"No, no. How could you think I hated you? I was angry. I was angry over losing Amber. Angry that she got caught up in our stupid screwed-up friendship. Angry because she tried to help both you and me when you got too drunk to drive yourself home that night." His voice was becoming higher and louder.

He caught himself, paused, and closed his eyes for a few beats. That was not what he was trying to say. He started again, but he couldn't prevent his voice from cracking as he stumbled through his confession, "The anger . . . I got over it. Her last words . . . She didn't want anger to be the last feeling she experienced. How could I honor her memory if I couldn't let go of my own?"

Wilson pushed the heels of his palms over his eyes, his hands and face damp when he pulled them away. He started a new thread, "And, then after all you did . . . What I asked you to do . . . I wasn't there for you."

House nodded, not focused on Wilson's declaration, but intent on solving Wilson's morbid interest in coming to the bar. His eyes locked on to some invisible answer, "You're planning to sit in this fucking bar for the rest of your fucking pathetic life playing Heathcliff to Amber's Cathy. You thought you could bring her back if you got as drunk as me that night? She'd walk into this bar and take you home on the next bus?

House's observation was irrational, but it cut deeply into Wilson's heart. "No! Y-Yes. I-I don't know," he rubbed at his forehead. "Drinking eases the pain." His hand held onto the second glass, drawing wet circles over the table, "It works for you."

"Pay attention, Wilson. Liquor and drugs work for me, because I'm not just a self-destructive idiot. I'm. In. Pain. But, you're a nice Jewish doctor acting as if his kosher brains were knocked out. For God's sakes, Wilson. Don't smell the coffee. Drink the whole damn pot! You need to get help before you kill yourself. I . . ."

A woman at the next table burst out in a shriek of laughter, and Wilson didn't catch the last words House uttered. He raised a questioning eyebrow, "What? I didn't hear . . . ?"

"I need you, Wilson."

It was a first for the bartender. His best customer leaving before last call with an unfinished glass on the table. His hand searched under the counter to return the credit card to the man when he saw both men get up from the table and embrace in a bear hug like they were long lost brothers. They walked to the entrance arm-in-arm, but he couldn't tell if it was the drunk or the cripple that was holding the other up. He shrugged, and returned to cleaning the spots off the glasses. He could have sworn he saw the two of them here a few months ago, and he knew he saw the man with the cane haunting the place for the last few weeks, checking through the window until his eyes lasered in on the dark haired man. He shook his head, and slipped the plastic card back into the cash drawer for safekeeping.

It was the silence of the fully assembled room that roused Wilson's attention. The last speaker finished, and the audience waited for the next volunteer. He ran his hand over his face, hoping to wipe any emotion from his features as he walked to the front of the room and turned around to look at the strangers who filled the small community center.

Before he started to talk, he splayed his legs for balance, anchoring them to the floor. His hands came up to his chest and the fingers interlaced as if offering a quick prayer then dropped back to his side. It was going to be one of the longest nights of his life.

He remembered House's words when he shoved the bottle of anti-depressants into his hand, "You can do this, Wilson."

Then he glimpsed a tall shadow bobbing up and down, moving quickly for the exit.

He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly before starting. He was unsure if what he was about to do was a "first" or a "last time." He knew it was life changing.

He closed his eyes, and bowed his head before looking at the crowd again.

"Hello, I'm James, and I'm an alcoholic"

A collective voice answered, "Hello, James."

He nodded a brief acknowledgement to his brethren and pressed his lips together determined to continue, "I'm here for the first time . . . "