No one knew he went to church, not even Wilson. It wasn't something he wanted to hide - exactly, it was just that he didn't want to have to explain it - even to Wilson. There were probably people who figured House might burst into flames if he ever crossed the threshold of a church but in twenty years it had never happened. Oh, a couple of times he'd felt a little warm but usually that turned out to be a result of sitting too close to the candles and he never mistook it for Divine revelation.
He favored Catholic churches and once, in a moment of complete reckless abandoned, asked Chase where he went for services. The young Australian's frown slowly gave way to an expression that clearly said he was waiting for the punch line. House just kept staring at him and in the end Chase had mumbled "St. Francis on Karnes" and hurried away. For a couple of days after that he thought Chase smelled alarmingly of incense and chuckled at thought of his underling on his knees asking God's forgivness for bringing a plague to His door. House had visited St. Francis but he did so on a Monday night, sitting in the very back and far enough away from the isle so that if Chase did show up he wouldn't be seen. It was an old church, the icons a bit faded and the pews worn lustrous from so many behinds and lots of elderly folks curled forward either in prayer or sleep.
House would prop his cane between his feet, hand resting lightly on top and close his eyes. If it was a Protestant church he sat closer to the middle, and on the isle. It was something about the acoustics in these churches, the sound didn't travel well and if things weren't up to par he would leave as quickly as he could. That was why he tried to stick to older Catholic churches, they generally had thick walls and the sound resonated majestically. And the music was why he came. House, who could barely sit in his specially designed office chair for forty minutes, could spend hours sitting on a hard wooden seat listening to an organ. He could lose himself in those soaring notes, everything dropped away; pain, anger, hurt, everything fading as his mind filled with the music. He never told anyone, even Wilson, how loud the voices were or how fast his thoughts flew when left unchecked inside his own skull. He'd been nearly twelve before he understood that other people didn't remember everything they read or saw or heard the way he did. He had so much information packed inside his head that there were times he thought it would just split open and a million odd bits would fall to the ground.
Only the music could drown out the sounds inside his head, only music could sooth it all away and leave him with a little bit of the happiness he craved. It didn't really matter where it came from, he could lose himself in elevators if he actually tried though the one time he'd done so Wilson's concerned brown eyes had nearly drilled a hole though him. But he liked churches because they were usually empty and some of them had massive organs where the sound traveled upwards like birds gliding on the wind. He didn't believe in God but he liked the sound. And maybe, just maybe, if he were to believe it would be because of music and concerned brown eyes.
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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 Fox Television, 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.