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House’s Head and Wilson’s Heart.

For as long as the road didn’t change, House didn’t care… around him, day and night could’ve changed a thousand times, but he only cared about the white stripes on the pavement:

Followed them where they bent and silently obeyed where the markings changed: he was blind to the world around him… the only thing he saw were those stripes:

He went left where they went left and right where they did, too… he had no sense of direction, no obvious destination either.

Changing winds, storms and even blizzards could’ve passed like a subtle whisper in the two hours he spent on his dented bike… he remained blissfully numb even as he stopped at a dodgy motel:

Unfamiliar scenery, unfamiliar motel… smelly, too.

Oh whatever… he needed to get away from everything: the motel looked like it was balancing on the edge of the world… how much further away could he get?

As House shot a last look at the bike, he remembered Wilson telling him how much he hated the thing… and then he remembered Wilson saying how much he hated him!

Needless to say, neither did anything for his mood…

House had always had the habit of carrying things on his shoulders longer than necessary… and the secret Wilson was so desperate to find out? It had been cemented there, had been his constant companion for years. He couldn’t even imagine life without the weight of it pressing down on him… it was his constant.

Pain was his only constant.

It returned every day and with all that he had, he wished it away… but what if it didn’t return? Then what would he do?

He had seen Wilson turn into his grief over Amber and now, he realized that he had become his pain… that his face and speech had hardened beyond recognition: he wasn’t her son anymore, Hadn’t been the one she named in his first ten seconds of life since sometime after he was five and thus old enough to fully understand the extent of his father’s hate… old enough to know that his father wasn’t the crime-fighting hero his mother had portrayed when he was in Vietnam…

House stayed there in his smelly little hotel room, frantically cradling the secret Wilson wanted to take away from him.

House’s head hurt.

***

Cuddy stood with her arms crossed in Wilson’s darkened office:

“What was that, Wilson? I’ve never seen him like that before…”

“His mother died.” Wilson responded dryly.

As he revealed the bag he had been busy packing, she raised a questioning eyebrow as she gestured in the direction of the thing:

“I’m going after him.” Wilson stated, as if it was the simplest, most natural thing in the world… it used to be.

“He’s in no shape to drive… he just… he drove off.” Wilson said, apologetically rubbing the back of his neck.

Cuddy let out a sad sigh at that: she knew that there was no stopping House if he really wanted to do something… “Where there’s a House, there’s a way… he’s probably fine, Wilson: if he wanted to get away that bad he’s going to get away. He’ll feel like crap after he gets off that thing… at least I hope that’ll be the case.”

“I’ll drive around for a while… will you call him? I don’t think he’ll pick up when I call.”

“Sound familiar?” at Wilson’s pointed eye roll Cuddy continued: “I’ll call some hospitals… just in case… you know.”

“Yeah… I know.” Wilson sighed. “And Cuddy? Blythe… was murdered.” At that, he swiftly walked out.

Time was of the essence here.

Cuddy fell out of her role for one second… she felt, she sighed, she cried and then she put her own mask back on and began calling her colleagues.

House was an idiot!

Her idiot…

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Wilson drove around aimlessly, checking every motel on his path…

Wilson’s heart ached for a man he couldn’t find.

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