mgowriter's note: I've been kind of obsessed with the aftermath of House-in-jail plots, so here is another one! This story is slightly AU and heavy on House/Wilson. If you like it, you might also enjoy my other similarly themed House story, "Starting Over."

Chapter 1: A stranger in a strange place

James Wilson stepped into the cool night air, loosening the silk tie around his neck. He sighed in relief as it uncoiled from its tight hold. Fitting, that it was a gift from the most recent ex-Mrs. Wilson. When she gave it to him three months ago for his forty-fifth birthday, she told him that the color blue made people more inclined to believe in an open and welcoming personality; a good color for someone who informed people they were dying of cancer every day. It had worked for her on the witness stand many times. You could dress up the toughest, most heavily tattooed gang member in a baby blue, button up shirt and somehow, he just felt more honest and down-to-earth to the jury. Until a minute ago, the tie felt like it was literally trying to choke him. He drew a slow hand into his hair, not caring about its usually well-groomed nature. It was the city. It was getting to him. Whose great idea was it to have a leukemia conference in Las Vegas, anyway? This is how you tell a nine-year-old kid that he's dying. Now, go have fun at the slots?

Wilson glanced down at his watch. 9:05 p.m. The streets around him were brilliantly lit against the night sky. Tourists, partygoers, gamblers and drunks were just starting to come out for the night. A person dressed in a rhinestone explosion—who looked like a woman with a muscular build, but on second thought may well have been a man not too long ago—walked by and gave him a wink. Were those rhinestones in her eyelashes? He shook his head. He needed to get out of here. The walk back to his hotel was more than a few blocks, but he decided the fresh air would clear his head. He was dreading the "Pain Rating System—Time for a Revision?" talk he had to give tomorrow morning.

Buttoning his suit, he picked up his pace against the chilly wind. The orange walk sign blinked ahead and he hurried to catch the light. As he looked up, he caught a moving figure from the corner of his eye. A second later, he unceremoniously crashed into the approaching man.

"I'm so sorry," Wilson started to apologize. He saw that the man had been using a cane, and bent down to retrieve it. As he held the cane from his hand, a pair of blue eyes that he never thought he would see again seared into his.

For a second, he saw his own look of surprise mirrored in the other man's eyes, but the cane was quickly ripped from his hands as the man hurried on his way.

. . .

"House?" Wilson's voice was barely a whisper. He looked at the retreating figure in disbelief. Was it a hallucination? He tried to lift himself off the ground, but for a few seconds the muscles in his legs refused to work. Doctor James Wilson, boy wonder oncologist, has finally cracked. The headline flashed in his mind.

The walk sign turned red, and cars started to honk from both sides. He scrambled to find his voice. "House," he managed to say aloud. "House!" He finally stood and closed the distance between them, grabbing the other man by his sleeve.

The man pulled away roughly. "You have the wrong guy. I don't know you." His expression was set in stone.

Wilson stared, dumbfounded. It was House. He had the same messy hair, unkept stubble, same forehead, same chin, same way he leaned on the cane, and the same brighter than blue eyes, looking anywhere but at his own. It had been eight years since he'd seen his best friend, but he knew without a doubt this was him.

"House." He didn't know what else to say.

"Look," the other man replied. "I'm not who you think I am. If you don't stop bothering me, I'm going to call the cops. They have a tendency to favor cripples over non-cripples. Clark county prison is not a place you want an overnight stay in, especially for a guy wearing a two thousand dollar suit." He looked down at his cane. "Get lost."

. . .

Wilson stared at the man that he had known for more than two decades. House's hand gripped the worn cane with more force than he remembered. His limp was worse; he favored his right leg more than he wanted to let on. His jacket hung loosely around his frame.

"Where the hell have you been for the last two years?" Wilson demanded to his friend's back. "Where did you go when you got out of jail? I was there. I waited for you. They said you left…" He felt the bravado drain from his voice. He felt sick.

"House, you son of a bitch. Why are you doing this? Do you have any idea how long I've been looking for you?" His voice caught on the last sentence, exposing his failed attempt to keep things together. He bit his tongue, hard. People were staring. Don't break down here, not now. This isn't the place.

He couldn't help it. Later, looking back at the scene, he would rationalize it as his body's way of avoiding the side effects of shock. It was a medical decision. He let himself crumple to the ground, and the world slowly spun itself back to normal. He ran his hand through his hair for the second time. He wanted to look up, but couldn't. House wasn't going to be there when he did, and he wasn't going to be sure if any of it was real. People were already starting to talk at the hospital. His obsession with finding the long lost, mythical diagnostician Dr. House wasn't healthy. They were worried. He needed to find a nice woman and settle down again. Even Cuddy was starting to hint at it.

. . .

The shoes came into his field of vision before anything else. They were loosely laced Nike's, blue and yellow stripes with a silver trim along the bottom. He looked up. House's face was a mixture of anger and annoyance.

"You idiot. How much have you spent on Lucas?"

Wilson smiled, widely. "Probably enough to buy a decent sports car."

House scowled in disapproval. "He charges double what he's worth by principle. You could've talked him down to an SUV, easy. Better yet, you should've just given it to me. Think of all the hookers I could've been rolling around town with."

"I'd been glad to," Wilson said. "But oh, wait, I haven't heard from you since you were incarcerated for manslaughter, a crime that you didn't commit, but plead guilty to anyway. Didn't get the memo on where you planned to disappear to after you got out."

. . .

House stared down at Wilson. His last memory of them together was from behind iron bars; him in an orange jumpsuit and Wilson in a similar outfit as the one he had on now. I'm not taking any more visitors. Those were the last words he said, more than eight years ago.

Wilson was older now, with more worry lines than he remembered. The hair at his temples had turned salt and pepper grey. House didn't know why he was surprised by the fact. Everyone changes, gets older. He looked into dark brown eyes that were full of questions he didn't know how to answer. If he had any sense of responsibility, he would walk away and never look back.

"You look like a psych case sitting there," he finally said. "Get up before you get us both arrested."

Wilson stood up carefully, testing his balance.

"Come on, I'm hungry." House motioned for him follow.

"Where are we going?"

"To the place where carnivoric dreams come true."