Hello everyone! After a couple of weeks of break, I decided to write a new story. It's going to be short, just 4-5 chapters, and it's pretty weird. I mean, the idea came from a dream, so you can imagine what I'm talking about.

Basically, it's all about fate/destiny/how you'd like to call it, but I won't say anything more for now. Just that it's very very angsty.

Also, I know that "moving on" is not set on the day the episode aired, but in this fic it is. I also know that according to Wikipedia Wilson dies in 2012, but if I'm not wrong there's one gap year between s7 and s8, so in this fic he dies in 2013.

For those of you who don't know it, English is not my first language, so you may spot some mistakes.

Let me know what you think, okay? :)

ALIVE

May 23rd 2011, Princeton, USA

With a strong push, he managed to open the car door.

He limped steadily towards her, climbing over the rubble that had been her living room.

She was leaning on the wall, staring at him in shock, surrounded by her sister, her brother-in-law, and her new date.

That bitch. She'd said she wasn't dating anyone.

As he approached her, she walked hesitantly towards him. He looked at her a few seconds before handing her her hairbrush.

She took it with shaky hands, and he walked away.

"You were right" he said to Wilson "I feel much better"

Then, he disappeared.

She'd deserved this. She had deserved his damn car through her living room.

She had promised she would love him for his true self, she had defined him the most incredible man she'd ever known. She'd said she didn't want him to change.

But oh, turns out she did.

She kicked him out at the first relapse, as if she had forgotten he was an addict. As if she had forgotten he was in pain. Then, she just went on with her life, as if nothing ever happened. But they did.

They happened. They mattered.

And now, she was going to remember it forever.

He smirked to himself, headed home. He wasn't going to stay there, though. He would just grab some stuff and then he would go away. Why stay home, after all? It was such a beautiful day.

He went to Fiji.

About one year later, he was in jail, and a guard came to wake him up, saying the Dean of Medicine wanted to see him. That day, when he saw Eric Foreman answering to that title, when he stepped once again into Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, that day was the day when Greg House realized that his last memory of Lisa Cuddy was going to be a mental picture of her holding an old hairbrush with shaky hands, in her destroyed house.

October 19th 2013, Princeton, USA

James Wilson was a beloved man.

House was standing behind a tree, attending the funeral. He was officially dead, so no one had to see him, but he just couldn't miss the last goodbye to his best friend. His only friend.

They had a great time during their road trip, saw a lot of places, met a lot of people. They had fun.

Then the bad days started, but House remained with Wilson until the very end.

And now there he was, hidden from the world, trying not to cry for the pain and the loneliness he felt deep inside his soul.

There were so many people attending Wilson's ceremony, way more than the ones who had attended his own, a few months earlier.

House, however, expected this. He was always an ass to everyone. Wilson, on the other hand, was a good man.

From his point of view, he glanced at the people standing around the grave, dressed in black.

There were Wilson's parents, and his brothers, both of them, even the one he barely spoke to. There were his three ex-wives, and a few ex-girlfriends. There were relatives, and other friends.

The hospital was basically all there, nurses, doctors, administrators, everyone. There was Chase, Foreman, Park, Adams, Taub, Thirteen. There was even a very pregnant Cameron, with her husband and her kid.

There was a huge amount of former oncology patients. There was Stacy.

Then, sitting in the third row, there was Lisa Cuddy. To his funeral, she hadn't come. But of course she would show up for Wilson.

Even though House could only see her back, he'd recognized her immediately. He could sense her presence.

Sitting at her right, there was Rachel, in a little black dress. He couldn't help smiling noticing how much she'd grown in just two years. Then, on the other side, there was a man. Averagely tall, brown hair. He had an arm over Cuddy's shoulders.

So, she'd found love again.

A very little part of him was happy for her. She was a good person after all, like Wilson was. She deserved to be happy.

Another part of him wished he could be that man holding and comforting her, but he knew that was just not possible. She hadn't even come to his funeral.

The truth was than now he was alone. Completely alone. Cuddy didn't even care if he was dead or alive. He could contact Dominika, but he actually didn't want to. There was a moment in his life when he thought he was in love with her, and they could be happy together. But thinking about her now, after all these month, he felt absolutely nothing.

And Wilson… Wilson was gone. Forever.

He sighed and left. The sorrow was just too much. He couldn't take it anymore.

He came back that evening, when the cemetery was desert, and he was allowed to be alone with his emotions.

He sat down next to Wilson's grave, and gently placed a flower and some stones on top of it. Originally, he was going to bring only the flower, but then he thought that Jews sometimes used stones instead, so he brought both.

He felt a little stupid for it. Wilson was dead. He wasn't going to care about stones, or flowers. Wilson didn't exist anymore. There was just his body, his flesh and bones, buried there. But he was gone.

House's eyes filled with tears. He'd thought he wasn't going to cry. He'd dreaded this moment for months, but he thought he was ready, when in fact he wasn't.

"Bastard" he whispered in the silence, hearing his own voice quivering. House always thought he was supposed to go first. He had abused his body for years, and behaved like a dickhead with everyone. He was supposed to die relatively young and in agony. Not Wilson. Wilson was supposed to grow old, together with his fifth wife, and then die in peace surrounded by kids and grandkids.

That was how things were supposed to go.

A solitary tear rolled down his cheek, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

The sound of his own thoughts was so loud that he didn't even hear the soft rustle of grass behind him, sign that someone was coming.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Greg" a female voice whispered.

He froze. He didn't expect anyone to be around at this time. He also didn't expect anyone to know he wasn't a ghost, not her at least.

He quickly dried his eyes, before standing up to face her.

"Stacy… Hi"

She smiled gently at him. It was good to see him alive.

"How are you?" she asked.

"Legally dead. What about you?"

"I'm fine, thanks"

He didn't know what to say. She had come to his funeral, so he didn't understand how she knew he was alive, or how she found him. A part of him was almost happy to see her. It was the first human contact he had since Wilson's death.

Another part of him, however, wanted to be left alone, mourning his friend. He didn't know what Stacy wanted, but he knew they hadn't spoken in ages, so it was very likely that she did want something.

"So, do you have questions for me?" he asked.

"I kinda know everything" she replied "I guess you have questions for me"

"Not really" he said "Wilson told you what happened, there's no other explanation"

"And you're not wondering why he told me?"

He looked away. Of course he was wondering. He just didn't feel like talking at the moment.

However, Stacy decided to ignore this, and gently put an hand on his arm.

"He was worried for you..." she started "He wanted you to go on with your life after his…"

"Don't say that word"

She sighed. "I'm a lawyer, Greg. He contacted me because he knew I could help you get your life back. Literally"

He looked up, as he suddenly realized what she meant.

He never thought about this, about his life "after Wilson". He just lived day after day, no plans, no arrangements. However, one thing he was sure about. He never ever regretted what he did. He would stage his own death a thousand times all over again, if it meant giving his friend the time of his life.

"I don't regret what I did" he said.

"I never implied that. I just said we can try to undo it"

He thought about it for a second. He would have to spend more time in jail for sure, then get his medical license back, then get a job, but no one would hire an old addict who faked his own death. He came to a quick conclusion. It just wasn't worth it.

"What for?" he whispered.

"What? What do you mean…?"

"It was a nice way to kindly decline your offer. Thanks for your concern. You can go now"

He just wanted to be left alone with Wilson.

She knew him well enough to understand that there was no way she could talk to him right now. It was a hard moment for him. He just needed some time. She took a business card out of her purse and handed it to him.

Reluctantly, he took it and shoved it in his jeans pockets.

"I'll be in town for the next couple of days" she just said.

He nodded, before sitting down again on the grass next to Wilson's grave.

"You're not alone, Greg, you know that?" he heard her say.

He scoffed. "Sure"

"I'm serious" she continued "You can count on me…"

He rolled his eyes. Why the hell wasn't she leaving? Was it so hard to understand that he just wanted to be alone?

"… and Lisa, she cares about you too…"

That made him lose it.

"Lisa hates me. Lisa didn't even show up at my damn funeral!" he snapped, turning to look at Stacy again. That name, Lisa, sounded so foreign to him. She was always Cuddy to him. "Lisa and I parted ways a long time ago, for good"

To that, Stacy didn't answer. She had heard, vaguely, what had happened between them, but she knew no details.

Plus, now he was clearly upset. There was no point in continuing a conversation.

"Just think about my offer, please" she whispered eventually.

He sighed in relief when he heard her leave, and he turned his attention back to Wilson's grave.

"You never change, don't you?!" he said aloud, staring at the headstone "why the hell did you have to contact Stacy? You should really stop this caring thing, you know"

Talking to his friend made him feel both better and worse at the same time. He kept talking a little longer. He told Wilson about the funeral, and the people that were there.

Then, a little before closing time, he rode all the way back to his cheap motel room with roaches in the shower.

Not that he cared.

He skipped dinner, as he had in the last two days. The last time he had a proper dinner, Wilson was still with him. He just wasn't hungry, at the moment.

He just wanted to sleep. He hadn't had a full night of sleep in what felt like ages. At first, he needed to be awake to take care of Wilson. Then, after Wilson was gone, sleep just wouldn't reach him. Too much pain.

That night, he decided he was going to take the matter in his own hands.

In the corner of the room, there was a bag, which contained all the medical stuff they needed during the journey. House opened it, ad was glad to see there was still some morphine left.

He lay down in bed, and injected it in his vein. He wasn't even too careful with the quantity. It just didn't matter if he slept a few hours, or the whole night, or more.

He just wanted to ease the pain.

His last conscious thought before passing out was that he could even overdose, and it didn't matter.

He didn't care.

No one would care.