A/N: Hmm...where to start? This was my Camp NaNo story. It was supposed to be this dark, violent, twisted, perverse story that came from the deepest, darkest corners of my mind. It didn't end up quite that way. It is dark and depressing in places, and there is violence, sex, of course, coarse language and whatever else.

Basically this story is about House going off the deep end after Wilson dies from Cancer. It's not finished yet but I will finish it when I have time, as I know how I'm going to end it. All I ask is that you read this story with an open mind and don't get pissed off if/when you don't agree with something you've read. ITS ONLY A STORY. I have a tendency to hold back A LOT when I write. I haven't done it here.

Ye be warned.

Disclaimer: I do not own House or any of the characters belonging to Fox or David Shore. I'm not making any money off this. Nobody would buy this crap anyway.

Chapter one

Las Vegas, Nevada

The sun set earlier in the southwest than Greg was used to. The room was getting progressively darker by the minute and soon he could barely make out Wilson's form in the bed. The constant drip of the Morphine was the only sound in the room. A not-so-gentle reminder of his friend's impending death. He was already exhibiting the signs that his time was almost up.

"House." The voice was barely a whisper but Greg heard it, and he sat down next to his best friend's bedside where he'd been holding a vigil for the past two weeks.

"Yeah?"

"I want you to promise me something."

Greg shut his eyes. This was it. He knew it was coming but he hoped it wouldn't. "I don't make promises. You know that."

"Yeah I know but I know you'll keep this one. Or at least I hope you will. Because if you don't, I'm going to haunt you for the rest of your life."

Greg chuckled. "You definitely know I don't believe in that life after death crap. Dead is dead."

"Don't underestimate the power of the great beyond," Wilson said in a very ominous voice. Then he started laughing at his attempt to be funny until he coughed. Greg handed him some water through a straw which he drank greedily until it was gone.

"So what do you want?"

"I want you to promise that you won't lose it. After I'm gone. That you'll keep on keeping on, just as you always have all these years. And if you find yourself in a place you feel you can't get out of, then you'll get help."

Greg sighed. It was a pretty tall order. One that he didn't want to fill. But then he felt Wilson's hand grasp his and squeeze. It was a strong squeeze, too. Stronger than he expected from a dying man. "House. You and I have been through a hell of a lot over the years, wouldn't you say?"

"Yeah."

"And awhile ago you said you'd grant whatever dying wish I had. Do you remember that?"

It was months ago, when they first started out on their cross country adventure, but he remembered.

"Yeah, so?"

"Well this is it. Please. Promise me that after I'm gone that you won't lose it and do something stupid."

Greg felt his eyes sting with tears and he was glad that it was dark so his friend couldn't see. Crying wasn't going to do any good anyway.

"Don't make me promise that, Wilson," he whispered. It was almost a cross between a whine and a desperate sigh. "You know I can't. You know what I'm capable of..."

"I know you can do this, House. You've sought help before. You can do it again. But you need to want it. You'll be okay, right?"

Greg closed his eyes and shook his head.

"Everything's been taken care of, you know," Wilson added. "This house, the bank accounts, your scrips. I made sure you'll have all that you need to get by. So what are you going to do as a man of leisure?"

"I haven't given it much thought."

"Well think about it. What do you want to do?"

"I met a guy who works at the Bellagio. He needs someone to play piano in the bar a few nights a week. Money's supposed to be decent."

"You don't need to worry about money," Wilson reminded him. With their combined assets sitting pretty in an offshore account, and Greg's secret stock portfolio, he was set for life.

"I know but it's something to do. A distraction. If I like it, I can whore myself out to other places. It's not like I can practice medicine anymore."

Wilson smirked. "But that won't stop you from trolling the medical forums and giving advice."

Greg pretended to look surprised and insulted. "Would I do that?"

"Yes."

"Damn you're good. Anyway, it's the only thing that keeps my mind off of things."

"I thought that's what the methadone is for."

"It takes the pain away but it can only do so much."

Wilson closed his eyes. "More water, please?"

Greg got up and went to the kitchen to refill the glass, and added a few ice cubes. That's when he felt a chill, as if someone walked over his grave and he turned and went back to the bedroom.

Wilson was already gone.

"Son of a..." he hissed as he placed his fingers against his friend's neck to seek the pulse he knew wasn't going to be there. "You fucking knew! What? Did you think I couldn't handle watching you die? Is that it? Well fuck you! I would've handled it just fine. And now you died alone! The very thing you didn't want so ha! The joke's on you!" House ran his hand through what was left of his hair and shook his head in disbelief. "I'm talking to a corpse. Great. Fucking great! You couldn't have waited a mere thirty seconds for when I came back with your glass of water? Selfish prick."

Still clutching the glass of ice water, he felt an irresistible urge to throw something so he threw that. It flew clear across the room and smashed into tons of tiny fragments when it hit the wall. As he stood there and surveyed the mess, he sighed. "Now I'm even more broken than before," he muttered and then left the room without a glance back.

X X X

A week later found House sitting in front of the head of Human Resources at the Bellagio casino hotel. The woman sitting across from him was older, British and clearly as bored as he was.

"Lenny tells me you play the piano very well," she said in a very obvious Yorkshire accent.

House shifted in the hard wooden chair. "Yes."

"Can you sing?"

"Depends on your opinion of singing. I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you. But find me a pretty girl in a hot dress to lie on top of my piano and you might be onto something."

She looked down her nose at him over her spectacles. "Are you trying to be funny?"

"Not really. It comes naturally."

"I must warn you mister...Lazarus...the Bellagio casino caters to an upper class clientele. People expect all the employees to have some kind of...class."

House blinked. He wasn't used to being called Mister, and he very nearly corrected the woman and reminded her that he was a doctor. But that was something he had to learn to live with. His doctor days were long behind him.

"I've seen your clientele and not all of them are upper class. This is one of the biggest tourist traps in the world, sweetie and they don't call this place Sin City for nothing. Hell, I saw a hooker and her pimp come in here just the other night. You call that upper class?"

"Now see here..."

Greg stood up and leaned across the desk so they were practically nose-to-nose. "No, you see, you senile old bag. Lenny told me this job was mine as long as I showed up for the interview and gave an audition. So show me where the piano is and I'll show you what I'm capable of. But I'm not going to be some two bit lounge singer for hire, either. I'm doing this as a favor to Lenny because the other guy quit. I might stay and I might not. If you find someone you think can do better than me, then by all means do so. But I've had offers from other casinos and I don't need this crap. I'm here on a favor to Lenny."

The lady cleared her throat and looked visibly nervous. "Very well, Mister Lazarus. If you'll follow me, I'll show you to the bar where you'll be playing."

He nodded and followed her to the casino floor and she pointed to the Roland electric piano in the lounge where his friend Lenny normally tended bar in the evenings.

"Any requests?" he asked as he sat down on the soft bench and cracked his knuckles.

"Most people like blues or jazz. Easy listening kind of music."

House nodded and began to play the Maple Leaf Rag by Scott Joplin. The woman looked impressed and clapped when he was done. "How about something slower?"

He thought for a second and then began to play Hymn to Freedom in the style of Oscar Peterson.

"Very nice. I suppose you'll want to know the salary."

"That would be useful," House replied as he kept playing, adding a drum beat to the song and speeding up the tempo a little.

"One hundred dollars a night and you'll keep all your tips."

House had no idea what the going rate was for a lounge pianist, but he didn't think it was that low. "A hundred bucks, huh?" He turned the music off and stood up. "Thanks but no thanks. I have a mortgage and bills like everyone else. The other places offered me at least twice that much. You want to match it, fine. But I'm not doing it for less than two hundred."

The woman glared up at him, but he could see her thinking about it and he was just about to walk away when she sighed. "Fine. Two hundred, three nights a week to start. Our busiest nights are Friday, Saturday and Sunday. That will have to do for now. If you prove yourself and the customers like you, you'll get more shifts. Is that satisfactory?"

House pretended to consider it and he nodded. "I'll be here Friday night."

"Six P.M. And dress appropriately. Do you have a nice suit?"

"A suit? Do I get a clothing allowance?"

"No."

"Then what I have will have to do for now."

He really didn't know why he felt the need to bluff so much. He had a few decent suits in the closet at home. But money was money, and he wanted it for many things. He didn't want to touch the money in his savings accounts if he didn't have to.

He went home to the empty house and took a look around. It was a mess. The girl who came to clean it once a week would be there tomorrow so he shrugged and tossed his helmet on the couch on his way to the kitchen. Glancing at his watch, it was almost time for his next Methadone dose so he poured himself the necessary amount and pounded it back like a shot.

Then he called Lenny.

Lenny Michaels was a bit of a low-life but he proved himself useful when he introduced House to a doctor at the nearby clinic who offered to write him prescriptions for Methadone. House was wary of taking it again, but the idea of being pain free was too good to ignore and he remembered how good it felt when he'd used it a few years back. He'd just have to be more careful this time. The doctor in charge, Dr. Kitson, was very adamant about keeping track of the doses and there hadn't been any issues like there were the last time he'd taken it before.

"Did you get the job?" Lenny inquired as soon as he answered.

"Yep. The old battleaxe in HR was only going to give me $100 night though."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah, but I managed to talk her into two hundred."

"Sucker."

"Yep. So I'll be working weekends."

"Sweet. I'll be your wingman for all the chicks you're gonna pick up. The last guy went home with a different girl every night, with my help of course," Lenny said proudly.

"I don't need a wingman. I can get a woman just fine, thankyouverymuch."

"Uh-huh. Ya know, honestly, Greg, I thought you were gay."

Greg closed his eyes and shook his head. "A guy can't have a best friend without it being sexual? What? Are you gay? Hoping I'm gonna hit on you?"

"God no. I'm as straight as they come."

"Yeah well so am I, asshole!"

"Whoa, calm down, buddy. I'm just messin with ya. Your buddy Wilson on the other hand..."

House gripped the phone so hard his knuckles were white. "Shut the fuck up about Wilson! You don't know what you're talking about." Then he ended the call and threw the phone across the room. It hit the sliding glass doors and broke into several pieces.

"Fucking hell!" he muttered.