Logically, he knew it was there; it was as much a part of House as his hands, his feet, his blue eyes that saw through everything and everyone. It had been House's constant companion, propping him up, levering him through his oddly graceful canted gait. James just didn't see it -- it was a blind spot in his field of vision, blanked out when he looked at his friend.
It's interesting, he once thought, the things we get so used to seeing disappear from our sight.
He knew it was the first thing others saw, well before they saw the man. He'd learned to recognize the shuttered glances, the quick look-aways. It's wrong to stare. It's like gazing at the blind woman at the convenience store or the Down's Syndrome child with his parents at the local Home Depot. It's an atavistic taboo sprung to life -- don't look, beware! -- and beyond that, the unspoken corollary: You might catch what they've got!
Even House's Fellows weren't immune sometimes. It wasn't as noticeable now, but when the young doctors had first arrived, one after another, their initial reactions had been painfully obvious.
Chase had looked ... and turned quietly away. Perhaps he had known something about crutches.
Cameron had seen -- and seized on it.
Foreman had observed, and dismissed it. From that point on it was irrelevant.
He'd tried to judge how House himself felt about it, and failed miserably. The cane was always near to hand, and House was constantly using it; poking and prodding, a barrier and an admission gate. On occasion he used it to occupy his hands, twirling it through the air in a lazy arc while his mind worked out a particularly thorny problem. Sometimes he would rest his head on the handle, its surface polished smooth by the constant grip, and Wilson knew his friend was in some secret place he'd never really know. It was at times like those that James almost (but not quite) saw the cane.
After the shooting, it's all he can see. Solid and real; resting upright in a corner of Wilson's office as if waiting for him. The smooth ebony shaft catches the fluorescent light, creating an illusory ripple pattern in the wood.
James isn't entirely sure how he ended up with it; he hadn't even been at the hospital that day. It had been his parents' wedding anniversary, and he and his younger brother Jonathan had both attended the luncheon party arranged by his parents' friends. He and Jonathan were the youngest people there, lost amidst the blue-haired Mah Jong matrons and their gray-haired husbands. He'd noticed his parents still hadn't abandoned the practice of leaving a place open for their eldest son, David. Their lost son. It's like they think he's Elijah, James thought. If he's supposed to show up for Passover, why not here? He had pushed the vaguely heretical thought away and sat down.
It still hurts to think that while he was politely drinking Chardonnay and eating poached salmon, his best friend was battling for his life in the ER. He knows the guilt he feels will never really go away.
When his pager had gone off, he'd glanced at the message; House 911, was all it said. The fact that it was from Cuddy had only made it all the more ominous. God damn it, House, what have you done to yourself this time? He had carefully set down his wineglass; dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, slowly. Every movement planned, calculated not to break the celebratory mood of the luncheon.
He'd excused himself, whispering "Hospital emergency" to his mother, trying not to see the disappointment in her eyes. His father and brother hadn't even gotten up; they'd been silent for a moment, then shook his hand, reluctant but not surprised to let him go. James gritted his teeth, trying to remember the last gathering of the Wilson clan that had been truly happy. My bris, he thinks sardonically, something all the ex-Mrs. Wilsons would've liked to have seen.
He'd walked away then, shoulders already hunching in anticipation of the blow about to fall.
This had better be worth it, House ...
Once out of the restaurant, he'd pulled out his cellphone, dialed Cuddy and listened in growing horror as she outlined the situation. House, a stranger, a gun. He had grimly fought down the panic threatening to freeze him in his tracks; the animal howl rising in his throat. The perfect storm of probabilities had finally come together.
Fuck ... not there for the infarction, not there for this. Shit friend I am.
He remembers breaking into a dead run for his car and fumbling with the keys. He doesn't remember actually driving to the hospital, but the recollection of arriving to a scene of chaotic, self-devouring energy is all too clear.
There'd been news trucks and reporters, police and security personnel. It was the biggest story of the day, if not the month, in Princeton, New Jersey. Local doctor shot! Mystery man claims alien abduction!
He'd forced his way in, looking for clues.
Foreman had been the first familiar face, still lingering in the ER -- he'd filled him in on the details.
Cameron and Chase were at the nurse's station in the ICU; scanning the patient's chart, making sure nothing had been overlooked.
The Fellows had all been there, waiting, and it was then that Wilson had felt the sharp lance of guilt truly pierce his heart.
The knowledge that House wasn't going to die had come in a surprisingly short time. The impromptu consult with the Fellows and Cuddy on House's request for ketamine took quite a while longer.
James had argued against it, earning himself some curious looks from the others. He'd pointed out the experimental nature of the treatment, the risks, the success rate of fifty percent. He had listed the theoretical outcomes, including the possibility of the treatment working for a short time before wearing off.
He'd known then, when no one spoke, that he was going to be overruled. He had tried one last tack: "At least wait until he's out of surgery and can make a coherent request. A proper differential needs to be done for this."
It was too late. He'd seen the determination in Cuddy's eyes, and finally realized the decision had been made before he got there.
Diagnostics was empty; there were papers scattered on the floor and the whiteboard had gone tumbling. The ugly iron-rich tang of spilled blood still hung in the air, and he forced himself to look down.
He was a doctor, and used to the sight; he saw human blood all too often. This was different. The last time he had seen the blood of someone close to him had been long ago, and he shivered at the memory. He'd been nineteen, and it had been his older brother David's blood on the floor; vivid, carnivorous red.
It was a long time before he could turn away, and walk slowly to his own office.
And there it was. Staring at him, if that could be said of an inanimate object.
He's left it alone since that day; hasn't touched it. He doesn't know if he can touch it. It just leans in the corner, a silent, reproachful reminder.
You weren't here. Look what happened.
fin