I slide out of bed and hunt for clothing. When my finger slides over a soft and non-smelly shirt, I put it on, taking careful note of where the back tag is. I put on the same pants I had on yesterday. I walk around the house, trying to find.. something. But there's nothing. All I remember seeing, all I expect to be there, I'm experiencing in a different way. It overwhelms me. I panic and sit down for the moment, so disoriented that I'm not sure where in my own home I am. I feel steps beneath me, and then a body sliding down next to me. He grasps my hands and turns me to face him, signing just one worfucking confused you can't tell apart your own home." His hand tightens and he signs "I can't pretend to understand this Greg, but I'm here for you."
(6 months later)
Life is a bitch. I'm still trying to figure it out. Nobody knows what went wrong with me those months back, and I'm not willing to keep searching. Todays the day I accept, stop the hunt. Today, I return to work. To the life I thought I would never have again. I'm dressed and Wilson is already waiting for me at the door. We walk out and I enjoy the gentle cold sprinkles of mist. Not quite rain, mist. When I arrive at the hospital, it's sheer smell is enough to make me happy in a way you cannot count. I walk as quickly as my bad leg allows me through the door and take in the surroundings. Damn, I miss not being the patient in this place. We head to the elevators and I slide my fingers around the panel searching for the properly labeled number, and then allow him to guide me into my office. I know how to get there, but I'm happy to let him take lead. It gives us a chance to remain connected. Once we're there, I feel a hand tap on my shoulder and then guide my hands over the signs "Hi, I'm the new interpreter that's been hired for you. I take it you're ready to get back to work?" "Clearly."
The day goes by quickly, boring. Our only case is a kid we rapidly figure out to be un-diagnosed cystic fibrosis, that's the GP fault for not catching it. Kid had burkholderia cepacia, for crying out loud. Everyone is -oh so- excited to see me, and mildly shocked I'm still the same witty arse hole I've ever been, two new handicaps later. Wilson came back to check up on me more often than he should have, and a few times, I don't think he knew I was aware of his presence. I smile, thinking of just how good I've gotten at noticing when space has changed in a room. I know when he's there, I know it with the reassuring tap of his shoes and I know it with the overwhelmingly powerful grasp of his cologne. I know.
Which leaves me thinking of tonight's plans, 6 months exactly since I became deafblind. I'm ready to talk. He's ready to listen, I can only hope. We're at a red light, so I grab his shoulder and hold it there until he jerks the wheel to continue driving. We're less than a mile from my home, which has become his. It's funny how that just worked out. He stayed. He didn't leave. Didn't make plans to leave. He knows. I know. We're home, so I push my door open and limp up and in. I walk to my couch and I motion the tapping steps behind me towards myself. I sit down and then wait for the thump of his body next to me. It comes. "We need to talk," I say, mustering all my courage to speak. His hand forms into "about?" and I reply "Us." I feel him shift closer and I nod. "I didn't want to say anything, not until.. not until this happened. But if I've learnt anything, it's that life is short and being a sarcastic arse wasn't going to get you. I want you. I want your firmness. I want you to make it go away. I want to lose myself in you. I need you to control me. Use me." There's a slight pause, and then the one thing I was praying for. "I know. I do want that, more than anything." I ask the burning question on my mind. "When?"
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.