Work Text:
Everyone left House eventually, even Wilson, the one person he thought would stay.
The funny thing was, Wilson was more than a friend to House, he loved Wilson, but Wilson didn't love him. To be fair, House never told him about his love, but it was too late now.
Wilson left after Amber died, telling House that they weren't friends anymore. House had expected this to be like any of their fights, they would always come back to the other, but he was wrong. Wilson left for good.
House had tried calling him hundreds of times but they all went unanswered. He was standing in front of what used to be Wilson's office, staring down at Wilson's contact in his phone for what felt like the millionth time, debating whether or not he should press call.
“House, what are you doing?” he heard Cuddy ask from behind him.
He quickly snapped his phone shut and turned around, "I'm trying to decide which hooker to call tonight,” he said deadpan.
Cuddy gave him a disbelieving look, “If that's what you say.”
“That is what I said, isn't it, or have you suddenly gone deaf?” he said defensively.
Cuddy sensing something was off asked gently, “House, are you ok? I know it's been hard on you since Wilson left.”
His expression darkened, “I’m fine. He has nothing to do with me anymore,” House snapped as he limped off towards his office.
He slammed the door behind him, collapsing into his office chair. He put his head in his hands, just sitting there, in the cold, oppressive silence, for what felt like hours.
Eventually House reached for his cane and stood up, limping to the door. He hesitated, hand on the doorknob, before turning back to grab his hidden stash of vicodin from his bookcase. He stuffed the bottles into his jacket pocket, the pills rattling against one another as he walked.
House started towards the hospital's exit doors, almost there when he saw Cameron out of the corner of his eye. She saw him and strode over, her hands full with what he assumed was a new case file. He ignored her and started walking faster, well as fast as he could with his leg.
“House! We have another case,” she yelled to him, but House kept walking, his eyes not leaving the door. Cameron seemed to deflate when she realized House wasn't going to stop, turning around, she strode back to where she came from. House paid her no mind as he finally made it outside.
He got on his motorcycle and started back to his apartment, spacing out the entire ride back, only spacing back in when he arrived. He sped walked up to his apartment, sighing when he finally unlocked his door.
House dropped his keys on the counter and limped to his couch. He took his phone out of his pocket along with the three bottles of pills he took. He set the bottles on the coffee table and opened his phone. He looked through his contacts before clicking call on Wilson's number.
The phone rang.
Once.
Twice.
“The person you're trying to reach is unavailable right now, at the tone please leave a message.”
House sighed and closed his phone, his eyes wandering to the vicodin bottles. After a while of just sitting there, staring at the pills, he seemed to come to a decision.
House stood from the couch, searching his apartment for something. Eventually he found what he was looking for, an envelope, a stack of paper, and a pen. He sat back down on the couch, beginning to write on a piece of paper.
Dear James,
Too formal, House never called Wilson that. He crumpled the paper up and got a fresh one.
Dear Wilson,
I want to tell yo-
Still not right, he started over.
Wilson,
I've been in love with you for years.
That felt right, forward and straight to the point. He continued on
Funny, right? I guess all of the gay jokes weren't jokes.
God, I miss you. I know I messed up and it's my fault, but I still miss you.
I regret it. If I could go back in time I would do anything you wanted if it meant you wouldn't leave. I would kill myself a hundred times over if you wanted. I should have tried harder to save Amber.
House felt tears start to run down his cheeks, but he made no effort to stop them.
I guess I should get to the point of this letter, I've procrastinated long enough.
I'll be dead when you're reading this. I know you'll blame yourself- would it have been different if I stayed blah blah blah- but it wasn't your fault.
His tears began to fall onto the page, smudging the ink, making it hard to read.
I've been a mean, miserable person, to you and everyone around me. It’s better this way. You get to live your happily ever after with the 4th Mrs.Wilson, the team won't have someone constantly berating them, you get the point.
Oh, and if you're wondering why you're the only one I wrote a letter to, it's because you're the only person that ever cared about me, maybe not anymore, but you get it.
One last thing, don't let my father come to my funeral, that bastard never actually cared about me, don't let him lie to you.
Anyway, this is goodbye I guess,
House
House sat there, re-reading the letter almost obsessively. Once he was satisfied with it, he carefully folded the letter up and placed it inside the envelope. He sealed it shut and flipped it over to write Wilson's name on the front. House placed the envelope on the table before reaching for his pills.
House sat there, with enough vicodin in his hands to kill him, and picked up his phone. House, for the third time today, found himself looking at Wilson's contact. After about a minute of looking, House found himself dialing a different number.
“911, what's your emergency?”
“Send an ambulance to 221B Baker Street.”
“Wh-”
House didn't let the person on the other end finish before he hung up. At least his body wouldn't rot in his apartment now.
House opened the first bottle and poured the entirety of its contents into his mouth. He set the empty bottle down and reached for the next.
House swallowed the next bottle with no problem.
It was on the third and final bottle that he had some trouble. His hands were shaking so badly that he couldn't open it. It took him a bit but he did eventually succeed, pouring the pills into his trembling hand he threw his head back and swallowed them all.
House sat there, vision darkening, waiting for death. He could hear the sirens now.
House could feel the fight leaving his body, his head rolling onto his shoulder. The sirens were closer, almost here.
House's vision was almost completely black, he was almost there, almost to peace. He used the last of his willpower to turn his head so he could look at the picture of Wilson he had on the shelf, to give him one last look at the man he loved.
Houses' eyes fell shut, the darkness taking over. The sirens were right outside now, the bright blue and red lights shining into his window, but it was too late.
House was dead.