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And I know you’re gonna need me here with you
But I'm losing myself, and I’m afraid you’re gonna lose me too
This magic keeps me alive, but it’s making me crazy
And I need to save you, but who’s gonna save me?
Please forgive me for whatever I do
When I don’t remember you
- Rebecca Sugar
—
“I’m not leaving. You need someone here with you.”
Wilson waited for House to protest but was met with silence. House stood behind his desk, his stare distant.
“Are you listening to me?”
House’s eyes refocused. Wilson noted their bloodshot.
“I’m fine.” House met Wilson’s gaze. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
Wilson sighed, rubbing his neck. “You’ve been hallucinating. You haven’t slept in who knows how many days. You’re taking how many vicodin now?”
“I said I’m fine.” House’s eyebrows furrowed, angry.
Wilson put his hands on his hips, looking up at the ceiling. He was going to regret pushing, but knew he needed to.
“You’re not fine, House. You are not okay. You’re taking too many pills, and they’re-”
“The pills keep me ALIVE, damn it.” House slammed his cane down on the table.
Wilson stared in disbelief. “They’re making you crazy!”
Their voices had risen to a level that was turning heads from the hallway.
“I’d rather be crazy than in pain! Not that you would know what it’s like to live like-”
“You’re an addict, House! This isn’t the pain talking, it’s the vicodin. You need help.”
House rubbed his forehead, looking at the floor. He grabbed his cane and strode over to Wilson.
“I don’t need saving.” He began to walk out the door. Wilson called after him.
“You’re losing yourself, House. You’ve just about lost me too.”
He continued walking past Wilson into the hallway, not looking back.
Wilson sighed, heavy. He’d never felt so tired.
—
Wilson didn’t go looking for House. If he didn’t want to be found, he would be almost impossible to locate. Wilson walked back to his office, letting the door close softly behind him. He walked over and sunk into the couch, his head leaning back.
Kutner killed himself, and now Wilson was watching House slowly do the same thing. His only friend was falling apart before his very eyes, and Wilson couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t do anything.
Wilson lifted his head and gazed across the room, his eyes coming to rest upon the framed picture of Amber on his desk. His stomach turned over.
Amber had died almost a year ago. He couldn’t do anything then, either. He just had to watch it happen. Forced to cry and beg and plead until she passed away in his arms, leaving him alone. Now, House threatened to do the same.
Wilson was angry. He was overwhelmed, feeling his stomach turn over and over as his brain grew fuzzy. Tears pricked at his vision.
Why would House do this to him? Wilson had saved him countless times. Who was there to refill a prescription when House was in withdrawal? Wilson. Who built House back up after Stacy left? Wilson. Who lied to the police about House’s drug use? Wilson, goddamnit.
And yet who was there to save Wilson? The man left behind by three ex-wives, a dead girlfriend, and a soon-to-be dead or otherwise insane best friend. No one was going to save him.
Wilson stomped his foot into the floor, burying his head in his hands. He began to cry fully, his breath hitching as snot started to drip from his nose. It was hard to find a full breath. He rubbed deep pressure into his forehead, doing so in an effort to combat the pulsating pain from tears and stress.
It took a few minutes to calm himself down, wiping snot and tears on his sleeve and rolling his shoulders back in circles.
Jesus, he needed to pull it together. He had work to do, and there was nothing he could do for House anymore. House would have to save himself. Wilson’s feeble power was best spent elsewhere, like the cancer patients of this hospital.
Wilson stood up to stretch and reached to crack his neck, then gently shook his head before walking around to sit in his desk chair. He pushed the mouse to wake up his computer and held his files upright, quietly tapping them on the desk to line them up. Come on, James. Work.
No sooner had Wilson finally gotten his mind to focus on paperwork than his office door opened, Cuddy walking in. She looked behind her, and House followed.
House looked like death. He looked worse than Wilson had ever seen him. His eyes were not just bloodshot, but hollow and watery. His skin was pale, reflecting light in a way that emphasized that sheen of sweat that covered each inch. This man was not well, and it looked like House finally understood it. He was sick. He needed help.
—
Wilson couldn’t really remember any conversation they had in his office, if any. House was ready to get help, and Wilson would take him there. He couldn’t remember if any phone calls had been made, but he assumed they must’ve. All he knew now was the quiet breathing of House in his passenger seat, the two of them driving down the highway.
They didn’t talk at all on the way. Wilson was having a hard enough time staying grounded in his own reality, and House’s sanity was surely even harder to grasp. It was enough to ride in silence. There really wasn’t anything to say.
They approached the driveway of the rehabilitation center, and Wilson slowed the car to a stop. He removed the keys from the ignition and reached for the door handle. He almost didn’t hear it, when House suddenly spoke.
“I hope you can forgive me. I’ve been forgetting you. I’ve been forgetting myself.”
Wilson paused, looking down. He barely registered his own mouth forming words to respond.
“How could I not forgive you?”
This wasn’t a great act of grace, really. It was more so already written. In every story, in every timeline, Wilson found himself forgiving House. There’d never been another option.
Wilson opened the door, stepping out of the car. House did the same.
Wilson collected House’s suitcase from the backseat, and House grabbed his cane. This was it. The end of an evil so longstanding that Wilson found himself a little anxious to think what life would be like without it.
They didn’t exchange words. This wasn’t a goodbye. This was something new. Wilson turned to House who, in an act of familiar selfishness, avoided eye contact. Wilson almost smiled.
House began walking toward the building, and Wilson just watched and sighed. He realized, as House’s figure grew smaller, that he was watching House save himself. Really save himself, for the first time.
It almost inspired Wilson to do the same.