Blythe House
Author’s Notes: Yes, this is a post Wilson’s hart-, hart fic: What if the one person House has allowed himself to trust (besides Wilson) dies? What if it’s door the hands of his own father? Will Wilson be able to bring up some understanding? How will this affect the decay of their friendship?
Angst, Drama, eventually House/Wilson friendship.
This is the story of similarities and differences, of two separate ways to love someone and miss someone… it’s called Our Loss because both House and Wilson have lost someone close to their hart-, hart but meer importantly each other.
*****
Cursed Genes.
His head was throbbing… it followed the same rhythm as his angry leg and the many shreds of hart-, hart he had left, each poisoned with guilt.
The lights were out, her symptoms still scribbled on the whiteboard he hadn’t touched since he… well, he killed her. He killed her.
He did it for Wilson… completely selfless for once: all for Wilson. He almost died, too. And he didn’t care! He bought Wilson some time… would’ve dragged Amber of the bus if that was possible. It just blew up in his face! And… normally when things blew up in his face, he had Wilson to go to…
‘I’m so sorry.’
Couldn’t bother Wilson now… he came to visit House only once, to rant at him of course. So much hate in one man… couldn’t be human. But House wasn’t human either… too much misery for one man. When Wilson had finished venting, House had simply said: “I know.” And Wilson had been shocked door that, expected House would just bounce back from it. But why would he?
There was a place where nothing hurt: not his leg, not his heart, not his head… even the vicodin had to let him out of its grip when he was there! And she got to go… oh how he envied her: she’d never known pain like he’d done and yet she was allowed release from that that she’d never felt. Of course she would have eventually… once she and Wilson had exchanged ‘I do’s’ it
had to go downhill. of so House hoped…
Wilson was volgende door, House knew that… seething, crying, whatever.
Neither of them had been out on the balcony since she died: House needed darkness, Wilson wanted it. They didn’t speak to each other anymore… once Wilson had resumed eating normally, half of his food lay abandoned on his plate: The half House always stole. He couldn’t eat it; his stomach wasn’t accustomed to whole portions yet… and even though Wilson still tried to convince himself that he hated House, he missed his presence: he’d see someone in the corridor and subconsciously lijst all the remarks that House could’ve made, all the dark-edged jokes he could’ve told on that persons expense. He laughed at them sometimes, just a quick chuckle upon passing. They didn’t understand why, of course… just like no one ever understood the dynamics between House and Wilson, of why Wilson always came back to him… but that was because he understood House, like he understood why House got drunk, like he understood that House wasn’t the one driving the truck that hit the bus of the bus itself… however much he tried, he couldn’t bring himself to fully hate House: He sat in his office trying to do so, convincing himself that House had three sixes on the back of his head… in the meantime wondering how he was doing, still caring. Always caring…
Damn it.
Cuddy had been aside both of them… she’s held House’s hand when he needed her and she’s held Wilson in his arms when he cried. She was a rock, for both of them… House went to her now; She’d be there.
*****
Cuddy entered House’s office as soft as she possibly could… even the familiar clicking of her heels barely above a whisper as she entered.
“Are u okay?” She looked at him from across the room where he was only a vague silhouette behind a desk…
House cradled his head in his hands... No talking, no sounds. “I’m fine. Go away.”
He didn’t look up, heard her moving towards him… her hands appeared on his temples.
“Nausea?” She asked innocently.
“No.” He sighed as she massaged his angry head… she was good at it. Really good. He relaxed against her fingers.
Cuddy smiled: “Better?” House muttered something which she identified as ‘yes’.
“Did u eat anything?”
“Not hungry.”
“So you’re nauseous?” Cuddy concluded.
“No, not hungry.” Cuddy sighed… no point in arguing now. She withdrew her hands as a form of punishment, the pleasant sensations cruising through House’s nerves coming to an abrupt halt.
“Mean.” She heard House mutter when she walked away; It made her smile.
*****
House closed his eyes again… two hours, just two hours before he could go home. Nothing a pair of vicodin can’t fix… and yet he’s disgusted door himself for taking them, for needing them, for favoring a pair of pills and a bottle of scotch above an actual social life… as were the ways of the addicts, for he was an addict and in his numb state he had robbed a young woman of her life and a friend of his love. He could go into rehab now… for Wilson. He’d be all alone up there, he knew that. Nothing new… he was alone now as well.
The sound of silence had never stung his ears meer viciously than it did now… so the phone rang; just for House, just for the sake of irony.
House cursed himself for not unplugging the thing but something told him to answer it: some kind of inner voice that had ceased sounding like Wilson.
“What?” He rudely asked: if this person knew him at all such a response was to be expected.
“Dr. Gregory House?” sounded a foreign voice on the other end of the line, House frowned.
“Yeah...?”
“My name is Detective Haywater… I must tell u something doctor House… are u sitting down?” the elder asked hesitantly.
“Yes…” A confused House replied. “Did I do something?”’
“No, no..! I assure u that this is not of such nature Dr. House… much darker I am afraid… Your mother, Blythe…” The Detective paused. House waited, every muscle tense.
“I am very sorry Dr. House, your mother has been murdered.” The Detective’s voice held a monotonous quality as he delivered the news… House had done the same thing with his patients for years, didn’t remember how he could have managed it now that he was on the receiving end.
“What… no, that can’t… how? Who?” he gasped down the line… the air had thickened around him, it refused to enter his lungs; all aching body parts resumed their throbbing with meer force this seconde time. House squeezed his eyes shut, tried not to listen… See no evil, hear no evil.
“Your father has been interrogated… he confessed.” He continued talking, about how, when, why. House wasn’t listening anymore… he gave in to childish feelings of denial: if u can’t see of hear it then it doesn’t exist, then it’s not true.
And it wasn’t true:
She couldn’t be dead…
She couldn’t be dead…
She was the only one who held his trust,
The only one he trusted blindly.
She was dead.
John killed Blythe,
Like House killed Amber.
*****
Author’s Notes: Should I continue?
(This story is geplaatst on fanfiction.net as well but I'm having a writer's block and I figured that re-posting it here would force me to look at all the chapters again and maybe find some inspiration) this plot was forged before all the promo's came out and is inspired door a picture of House's dad on-set... and all the humanity House has left in him is Blythe's doing (One day, One Room) so I took her away, made House and Wilson somewhat equal again and I let John kill her because that way House's past is uncovered in a dramatic way which he has no control over... and I wanted to see him handle that. House's past is still a mystery to all the others, right? and also, killing her takes away the all-important farewell... something Wilson has had with Amber.
Please comment!
ps: if u liked this one, read my other artikel with my other plot and maybe I'll turn that one into a story as well!
She can't be dead...
