BRIDGES FREEZE BEFORE ROADWAY

Normally he hates boring cases. A case his team can figure out without him might as well be no case at all; usually he indulges in a good tirade over why they wasted their time with it in the first place.

But today it's just peachy, actually. It's simple but labor-intensive enough to keep them occupied and arguing amongst themselves, leaving him free to daydream and wonder what he should pick up for supper.

He's bounced his tenth rubber band off Kutner's forehead when Cuddy pokes her head in the door from his office. "House," she says curtly.

"Yes?" he replies sweetly, looking at her upside-down.

"We need to talk," she continues in the same gruff voice, not meeting his eyes.

He gives the others the "uh-oh" eyebrow raise and follows her into the other room. When he takes a good look at her his heart freezes; she's obviously been crying, her eye makeup completely washed away, her cheeks red. His first thought is his mother, because he can't even imagine thinking the other thought-

"I just got a call," she begins, obviously struggling to keep her voice even, "from a hospital in Pennsylvania. There was…an accident. They're doing some construction on a bridge, and it was icy, and the car…it went into the river-"

"Is he okay?" It leaves his mouth before his brain can even process what she's saying.

He hates it when people ask that. When it's so fucking obvious from the way news is being relayed that the person is not okay, but the person being told is compelled to ask - how many times has he been annoyed by that? "Well, her head was completely separated from her-" "Is she okay?" And yet here he is, asking it, because he cannot even begin to construct a world in which Wilson is not okay.

Her mouth keeps moving but sounds cease coming out of it.

He doesn't know what to do. It's some weird coincidence that he's still breathing. He looks at Cuddy, who's crying anew. He looks over at his team, peering in curiously.

None of them knows. Oh, they know that Wilson is his friend. His best friend. The only friend he's had for the last twenty years. But they don't know how much he loves him. They probably think they know - they actually probably think they know better than he does, but-

-but he knows now, he knows now, he's realized it, he's acknowledged it, it took him a long time and it took almost losing Wilson again and for real this time for God's sake it took-it took horrible mistakes but he was willing to atone for them, it's not fair-

IT'S NOT FAIR-

Cuddy is reaching for him, trying to hug him, but if he accepts some sick attempt at comfort that makes it real, and it can't be real, he refuses to accept it's real.

He ducks away from her and stumbles out of the room, not even grabbing his cane before he does. Fuck it, he can limp. He can still walk, it just hurts.

He only makes it as far as the men's room before he has to stagger in to a stall and vomit.

PAIN

Gonna miss me?

House stares at the ceiling, through the memory of Wilson's face above his.

Gonna miss me?

Gonna miss me?

Gonna miss me?

He can hear Wilson's voice, as clear as if he were in the room. He can feel him, on top of him, around him, against him; his mouth, his hands, his-

You have no idea how much I love you.

He's slept for over twenty-four hours; his body refuses to sleep any more.

Looks like he panicked, hit the gas instead of the brake. It happens a lot more than you'd think; just bad luck it happened where it did. I'm real sorry-

His stomach is empty and he's dehydrated, but anything that enters his body instantly wants out.

Gonna miss me?

He shouldn't have let him go. Why did he let him go? Why did he encourage him to go to the stupid thing?

Because he was trying to show Wilson he could be different. He could be less selfish. When Wilson came back to him - and holy of holies when Wilson came into his bed - he wanted to hold him down and never let him out of his sight.

But he was afraid of angering Wilson all over again; of reminding Wilson why he left. So he tried to be different…and look where it got him.

Gonna miss me?

No, no, no, it's not his fault. Just like…just like Amber's death wasn't his fault, not really…just bad luck it happened where it did-

His stomach clenches, and if there was anything in it, it would be coating the sheets next to him.

Is this what Wilson felt when Amber died? Did he cause Wilson this pain?

No wonder he left. All the things House had done to Wilson over the years…well, Wilson gave right back for the most part. Verbally, at least; he always let House know his displeasure, or annoyance, or anger. But he let House get away with it, because - because he loved House.

But how could you forgive someone this? This is living death. If he had the energy and a high bridge himself, he'd walk right off the edge.

But Wilson had forgiven him. He had tried to stay away and he couldn't, even when House had lost all hope of him coming back. Maybe it had taken an outside force, but he still could have left.

But he didn't. He had come right back.

Because he had loved House that much.

Gonna miss me?

HALF-STITCHED SCAR
For many the cumulative despair simply becomes unendurable; there is a steady erosion in the brake linings of the mental system that apply force against self-murder. -Kay Redfield Jamison, Night Falls Fast

The next day a package arrives addressed to Wilson. Which would be odd enough, except the return address is from Wilson as well.

He shuffles to the couch with it and holds it for several minutes, staring at Wilson's handwriting. He opens one end of the package carefully and pulls out a weathered notebook, which he recognizes as the one Wilson removed from his messenger bag before leaving.

He glances over at where the bag has been lying since Saturday; he'd forgotten all about it until now.

The notebook has a postcard sticking out of it, with a picture of an upscale hotel on the front; House assumes it's the one Wilson just stayed at.

He turns it over to read what Wilson's written, in the most legible writing of Wilson's he's ever seen.

House,

I'm so sorry.

It's better this way.

I love you.

-Wilson

House stares at it for a long time before it completely sinks in.

He's holding a suicide note.

He's holding Wilson's suicide note.

There's a stamp on the postcard, like Wilson was only going to mail that but then decided he wanted House to know more.

House drops the notebook and retrieves the messenger bag. He sits back down and with shaking hands reaches in and pulls out the gun and slams it on the coffee table next to the notebook and makes a strange desperate noise unlike anything he's ever made before.

His brain can't help but try to put pieces together; and if Wilson deliberately left the gun behind, it means that he was having second thoughts. It means House could have saved him.

He slowly picks up the notebook and starts reading. Some of it doesn't make a lot of sense to him - names, notes, dates - but the overall effect is there.

This wasn't a recent development.

Several pages have blood on them, and several others are blank expect for the words House I at the top.

Wilson had been struggling with this for…

…ever.

House doesn't know if he just never saw it, or if he didn't want to see it, or if Wilson was that good at hiding it…but he sees it all now.

Time, along with other things, is starting to unravel in House's brain.

House I

So many times House didn't notice how little Wilson was eating because he was busy stealing Wilson's food.

House I

Seeing scratches and bruises on Wilson's arms and teasing him for being clumsy, then not commenting when he wore his sleeves down.

House I

All the times Wilson preferred to sleep on his couch than go home, even when he had a wife there…

House I

All the times he didn't notice that Wilson was constantly hiding his loneliness, or sadness, or anger…. He just got used to it, is all. It's just who Wilson was.

And besides, Wilson could have asked for help any time! House throws down the notebook, some anger of his own now growing. He could have-

"He was too busy helping you."

House looks up, startled, wiping tears from his eyes.

Amber smiles at him from the chair across the room.

"Why didn't he say anything?" he asks.

"I don't know," she says softly.

"I didn't have a chance to help him…"

"You had twenty years," she snaps accusingly, then closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry. That's not fair."

"I think maybe it is," he says, gazing at the notebook. "I don't know anymore. I can't make sense of this. …I can't solve this puzzle."

"Do you want to solve this puzzle?"

He looks up at her, numb. "No. I don't."

She looks as if she expects him to say more, and when he doesn't she looks around and whistles. "You've really managed to mess this place up in just a few days."

He's staring at the gun now. "It was like this before he left."

She frowns. "Wilson was living here and it looked like this?"

"Didn't ask him to clean…didn't want him to think that's why I wanted him here. Wanted to show him I could change…be unselfish…. And when he didn't clean on his own, I didn't even comment on that!" He laughs mirthlessly. "I am a fucking genius."

They both stare at the gun. "I can't live without him. That sounds like a fucking soap opera but it's true - especially not when I fucking killed him."

"You didn't kill him, genius, any more than you killed me. You kept him alive, for a long time, at least. He loved you."

There's an unspoken Still… between them. Still, if Amber hadn't been killed; still, if House had realized he could love Wilson like this years ago, before they even knew Amber…

Two people dead because his brain failed when it mattered.

He picks up the gun and briefly looks to her for solace, or support, or something.

"It's okay," she says as he presses the barrel against his temple. "I know you loved him, and he knew it too."

That's all he needs to hear.

END

(This story is now technically at its end. Not many here seemed to care about it, but I'll probably still post-well, you'll see if I post it. And if you care. Lemme know if ya do, huh? Not to Take Fanfiction Seriously but I put a lot of myself into this story. Cheers)