I am really sorry for the nastiness in this. Really really. I feel so mean. Bu I also kinda love it. R&R.
Oh, I'm still encouraging people to view my forum - go through my profile to find it.
Disclaimer: Totally not mine.
Wilson looked pale, almost milk white. Tiny blue lines criss-crossed beneath his skin. The long dark eyelashes seemed deepest black, like negative space resting against his cheekbones. His neck curved gracefully and a faint shadow was cast in the hollows created by his collarbone. James looked ethereal. The image would be the most beautiful House had seen, were it not for the blue tint of his soft lips and the fine pink scars standing out vividly in the morgue lights.
His left hand rested on cold steel and his right felt like it was the same, only this cold steel used to have a name. The pulsing light that House had seen within him was gone now. The switch had been flicked off by broken glass and twisted metal, by a man fiddling with his car radio instead of watching the road. Swerving, screeching, shattering and the only thing in House's world was gone. Synapses had been cut off, neurones had stopped firing, blood no longer pulsed and James Wilson's eyes stopped dancing, his lips could no longer quirk into a devilish smile and his nose would not crinkle with laughter.
Greg's eyes stopped dancing when Wilson's did. He could not smile, he could not laugh, all he was capable of was sitting with his hand on the corpse of his friend, tears falling unnoticed, praying to a god he had long ago stopped believing in for a miracle. House could not understand why he was here. Wilson was gone, over, ended. There was no spark anymore; his body was just one more object, inanimate and room temperature. It lost meaning; everything had lost meaning. An image filled House's mind, washing across his eyes, of Wilson's body in the ground surrounded by the constant force of earth on all sides. He imagined the slow decay of his friend's body, skin and muscle fading to bone then dust. Light faded to dark, Wilson faded to nothing and House went with him.
Greg faced blankness. A day in day out routine of empty space around him and within him, months of ordering twice the Chinese takeout he needed and his birthday without the offhand acknowledgement. He faced the day when he would wake up unable to recall the way Jimmy looked when he smiled.
House's hand rested on Wilson's chest, trying to remedy the cold that had engulfed the body, trying to give the corpse some semblance of life. All he could feel was a tingling chill spiking through his fingers, spreading numbness over him.
Life invaded the room and it told House he had to leave, told him to take time off work and gently laid a hand on his shoulder. "Greg, the funeral…" Cuddy's breath hitched and she gently squeezed House's shoulder. Her heels clicked on the hard floor as she left House alone again.
Tremors wracked his body unheeded when he stood, removing his hand from the…object on the cold metal table. He leant over the corpse and pressed his lips to it's brow. Greg pulled back and looked at the forever closed eyelids. He limped out of the room, leaving his tears glistening on the face that had once belonged to James Wilson.
House sat in his office and watched the duckling talk quietly. Chase had turned away from the others twice now, briskly wiping his eyes. He had grabbed Cameron's arm and pulled her back when she started towards the office, for which House was grateful. He wearily ran his hand across his face, only vaguely aware that it came away wet. The doctor struggled to his feet and pulled open his office door. "Go home."
House settled back in his chair and called his own home, dialling into the answering machine. The messages were still there.
"House, you're needed at the hospital." The first of the messages, from Cuddy as they all were. She sounded choked. Her voice was weak and thick from crying. House couldn't believe he hadn't noticed it, he had ignored her.
"House, are you there? You have to come to the hospital." This was message two, also ignored while House sat at the piano, picking out a tune and watching Wilson's Chinese go cold.
"Greg, get to the fucking hospital now." On the final message her sob sounded clearly. "It's Wilson."
When he arrived at the hospital, 2 hours and 38 minutes after the first phone call, Cuddy had led him to the morgue. He could tell now from these messages, from the different levels of pain permeating them, that if he had been there sooner he could have spoken to the only person he believed in one last time, and held his hand while it was still warm. He could have told him all the things he was grateful for and he could have said everything he always told himself could wait one more day to be said. Wilson could have forgiven him for not saying all the things he wanted to say sooner.
"House, you're needed at the hospital"
"House, are you there? You have to come to the hospital."
"Greg, get to the fucking hospital now. It's Wilson."
2 hours and 38 minutes.
"House, you're needed…"
"House, are you there…"
"It's Wilson."
It's Wilson. It used to be Wilson. It's nothing.
House hurled the lacrosse ball across the room, throwing it hard against the window. The pane shuddered with impact, but didn't even crack. He released a long, faltering breath. Leaving his cane discarded on the floor House limped out onto the balcony that joined with what had once been Wilson's office. He leant on the railings, head pressed against the same hard surface his hands were, eyes closed. He listened closely, letting all the sound of the surrounding world seep into him. The main road sounded like dull, relentless thunder, a background for all other noises. The everyday world continued around him. Nothing would stop because one man died. The sun was even shining today, blistering cold daylight illuminating everything in the same harsh glare as the morgue lights. House scratched his fingernail over the railing, chips breaking off the rough surface and scraping the sensitive skin of his fingertips. He jumped and turned at an imagined sound behind him, expecting Wilson to walk out onto the balcony and join him. The door to Wilson's office remained shut, and the blinds were pulled closed. Sunlight reflected off the glass, temporarily blinding House. He squinted into the brightness, then turned in a circle taking in the way everything looked out here, covered with blotches of purple and blue as an after effect of staring into the light.
House blinked. He was at his front door. He could not remember leaving the hospital, or driving home, or even taking the elevator up to his floor. The collar of his shirt had started to chafe at his neck, sticking to skin that was damp with tears. The corners of his eyes hurt; the effort to keep them open was more than he wanted to give. When he blinked his eyes resisted reopening, just faintly, as salt stuck the lashes together. He fumbled in his pocket for his keys, finding a peanut and a few cents worth of change in the process. House held all three in his fist, then uncurled his hand slowly and focused his eyes in the objects flat on his palm. He counted the change, then lifted his opposite hand and flicked the peanut away. The change was placed back in his pocket. He slid the key into the lock, the scraping noise clear inside his head. He turned the key rotating his entire hand, instead of grasping it between thumb and forefinger.
Windows were open in his apartment, curtains pulled back. Brash light shone into the room, illuminating the dust motes floating through the air. House reached out his hand and tried to catch them as he had done as a child. Everything was how he had left it. His half eaten takeout sat on the piano; Wilson's was untouched on the coffee table along with a bottle of warm beer. House's jacket was tossed over the edge of the couch, he had not stopped to put it on when he rushed out last night. Two DVD rentals were on top of the TV set, both unwatched. House flicked the light switch on and off, on and off, on and off, until the bulb broke with a dull bang.
Greg dropped onto the centre cushion of the couch, leaving his cane to clatter to the floor. He popped open the beer that was sitting on the coffee table with his thumb and pulled back the lid flaps of the carton containing cold chicken lo mein. Using one chop stick he speared a piece of meat. The dry chicken broke down to paste on his tongue and small lumps of congealed sauce caught on the roof of his mouth. The food slid slowly down his throat, bite after bite settling heavily in his stomach. House pushed the carton away onto the floor, scattering the few remaining scraps. He left the remnants there sinking into the thick carpet pile to stain.
House tipped his head back, closing his eyes. Food churned in his stomach and he felt a lump in his throat, acid on his tongue. His diaphragm heaved in warning, and he covered his mouth, blindly staggering for the bathroom. Another jerk from his diaphragm threw his balance and sent him to his knees in front of the toilet. His knuckles turned white gripping the side of the bowl as food crawled slowly, painfully up his oesophagus. Acid stung on the back of his throat and tears stung his eyes. A furry taste already settling in his mouth, House leant against the cold tiled wall softly banging the back of his head in repetitious motion, letting the rhythm remove all thoughts from his mind.