The Thread of Life	The House Fan Fiction Archive	  Home

 Quicksearch
 Search Engine
 Random Story

 Upload Story

      	

  The Thread of Life 
 by gena  

 The Thread of Life

 Wilson knew he'd seen too many movies when his own death reminded him of
a scene from Ghost. It was the one where the guy in the car accident was
knocked right out of his body and the black shadows steal him away kicking
and screaming. Wilson looked over his shoulder but didn't see any creepy
black shapes sneaking up on him so he turned his attentions back to the
chaos in front of him. He'd been driving, heading back to his apartment
from a horribly long day. He was tired and just wanted to go home and rest
but House had practically demanded he come over for the evening. Wilson
knew what it would be like; House would rant and rave about the case he
was working on and when he couldn't come up with anything new he'd turn
his anger on Wilson. Normally Wilson didn't mind, it kept House from
hurting himself and it served as a much easier way to castigate his own
sense of failure. But tonight he had just been too tired. 

 And now he was dead. Okay, not quite dead, the paramedics were doing
their best, but somehow part of him had managed to slip away without
notice. He edged closer to the wreckage, hoping for a glimpse of his body
and was relieved to see his face looked okay. If he really were dead he
didn't want people flinching when they saw him or worse needing a closed
casket. He'd always been vain about his looks and the thought of his last
impression on his loved ones being that of a horribly disfigured corpse
was unbearable. Plus he was secretly relieved House wouldn't find anything
to criticize about him in death. Wilson walked away, mildly surprised he
did walk and not float or something. Yes, too many movies. He could feel a
lightness but it wasn't of step, it seemed to be inside him, as if all his
cares had dropped away and he could do anything he wanted. There was still
a tie to the physical world, he could feel it like a rope binding him to
the present but it was stretched thin, a fragile hold that seemed to waver
as he surveyed the scene around him. 

 A police car pulled up beside the fire truck and ambulance, a uniformed
officer jumping out to access the scene and help with traffic. On impulse,
Wilson hopped inside the open door and settled behind the wheel. He knew
he couldn't move the car, but he'd always wanted to see the inside, though
there had been times he'd come close to the opportunity courtesy of House.
There were buttons and a microphone and a switch for the siren. The lure
was too great, envisioning Patrick Swayzy, Demi Moore and a penny, Wilson
concentrated everything he had on his left index finger. With a mental
heave he reached out and - the siren blared to life so suddenly his
concentration faltered and with it he fell through the bottom of the
patrol car and onto the road. Phantom heart knocking against his ribs,
Wilson stared at the undercarriage for a long moment before rolling out
from under it. Okay, that had been unsettling. 

 The cop raced back to his car and silenced the siren, casting an
obviously puzzled gaze around the interior. Eventually he shrugged,
putting it down to automotive gremlins and hurried back out to the
accident. On the road behind him, the ambulance crew was loading a body
and Wilson watched it speed away with a feeling of panic sweeping over
him. According to the movies he should see a white light, barring that he
should be seeing his loved ones waiting to welcome him home. He looked
around, no one - unless you wanted to count the four or five rubberneckers
still standing around discussing his possible untimely demise. This wasn't
going well, but then again nothing ever did. He set out in the direction
of the hospital, able to hear the siren for several blocks. He didn't have
to concentrate to keep his feet from sinking into the pavement up to the
ankles and this fact keep him occupied until he noticed a busty blonde
jogging towards him. 

 Wilson smiled, he specialized in accidental meetings. She got closer and
he dipped his head, letting a thick strand of chestnut hair fall over his
eyes but felt those same eyes widen when he realized she wasn't going to
stop. Bracing for an impact that never came, Wilson could only stand there
as their bodies past through one another, unprepared for the effect it had
on him. There was an overwhelming rush of pain, intense heat and noise, an
agonizing and disorienting sensation that he could only compare to walking
through a fog bank while someone blasted airport announcement static at
ear-bleeding levels and having your limbs ripped from your body. His lack
of a corporeal body assured there was no physical contact but because they
were passing through the same space, something of both must have brushed.
Wilson shuddered under the onslaught, trying not to think of his
consciousness plunging through her internal organs, or hearing the
cacophony of her innermost thoughts. The violation to both of them left
him feeling dizzy and weak and he stood there long after she had jogged
on, trying to forget what it had felt like. It had been worse than falling
through a solid object and he had no wish to repeat the experience anytime
soon.

 A sudden desire to end this weirdness rushed through him and with renewed
determination, Wilson headed in the direction of the hospital. His
apartment wasn't all that far from PPTH but it was slow going, skirting
groups of partying youths, hugging the sides of buildings whenever passing
anyone on the sidewalk because the thought of repeating the experience of
walking through someone else made him cringe. Wilson wondered if his body
showed any signs of the reactions he felt, that would be something
interesting to talk over with House. He kept going and, the closer he got
to the hospital, the stronger the link he had felt at the scene. He
realized it was an awareness of his body, not in a physical way, not like
he could tell what they were doing to it - him. It felt more like standing
in the condom aisle at the store and getting that weird tingle that tells
you someone else is nearby just waiting for you to get the hell out of
there so they can grab a jumbo party pack. He wondered what would happen
once he got to the hospital, if he died before his soul got there would he
be whisked into that white light or was it like on Stargate where if he
missed the wormhole whoosh he was shit out of luck? Again, with the
movies. Wilson shook his head and kept walking.

 Night had long since fallen, even before he'd plowed his car into a tree
the moon had been full and round and hanging in the sky like a silver drop
of liquid. Time seemed just as fluid because night deepened as it did just
before dawn and he began to notice other forms, not the people on the
streets he was working hard to avoid, but shimmery shapes outline in dying
moonlight. None of them looked at him or attempted to communicate with
him, but he could sense their interest as he passed them. When he turned
onto the street that would lead him to the ER he could see dozens of them
gathered around, loitering beneath the trees, a small gleam of cheek here
or a silvered hand there in the black shadows. Wilson paused, uncertain
what they all were doing there. He could sense their confusion and fear,
they huddled around the last place they had been, isolated but unwilling
to move on. Some cried out, piteous noises that struck sharp and painful
at his heart, while others sat quietly, their faces blank and eyes dead.
Were there people who waited on the other side for them or had they always
been alone? Did they cling to this world or just fear the next? 

 The sky began to lighten and with it the urge to discover his future
increased. Wilson spared the shadowy forms one last look, praying he would
not soon join their ranks. He entered the hospital and as he passed
through the doors the tug on his consciousness splintered into dozens of
pieces. He could feel himself being drawn in different directions, the
strongest pull seemed to be upwards and for a fleeting second he thought
it was towards Heaven but just as quickly some part of his soul understood
it was only as far as the fourth floor. There were others, nowhere near as
powerful as the first one, but tugs on his being that he knew came from
his co-workers and friends. He let his hand brush the air, surprised by
the cottony filaments which clung to his fingers. He separated one and
idly followed the small gentle pull, putting off the more insistent one
until he thought he could stand it. 

 She worked in the hospital gift shop. He thought her name was Kelly or
maybe Katie and she was all of twenty years old. The thread he held linked
him to her, while others came from other directions, other people. Wilson
knew these were the threads of her life, the people she touched and who
touched her in return. He liked her, not in any way that would get him in
trouble with anyone other than House, but she was shy and gentle and there
had always been a smile on her face. Not today. She was opening the gift
shop, setting out displays, readying the place for another day but her
glance kept straying from her duties. Wilson watched her gaze rake the
lobby time after time, as if she waited for confirmation of some event.
One of the cafeteria workers past and she called out to him, asking if
there was any word.

 "No," the young man said, "no one's heard anything yet. He's still in
surgery."

 Wilson turned away, drawn by a closer thread. He found himself outside
Cuddy's office, staring into the brightly lit office. She was beautiful,
sunlight playing over her black hair bringing out streaks of blues and
flashes of reds but maybe it was a trick of the harsh florescent lighting
because her normally flawless skin appeared deathly pale and her eyes were
strangely red-rimmed. The bond between him and her curled around her,
silver blue as a rising moon. He could see other threads if he
concentrated, bonds with family and friends, a web that held her secure in
their lives. Wilson smiled, Cuddy possessed a indomitable strength he had
rarely seen in others, women especially didn't often let that kind of
power show but she tempered it with a truly feminine sense of caring
compassion and that mix more than anything appealed to him. 

 She could be fierce when called for but as gentle as a child when needed.
She was a good friend, honestly the truest of all the friends he had ever
made. It had often hurt him not to be a good friend back to her, but his
obligations ran in another direction and went much deeper than friendship
ever could. Wilson could feel sorrow from her, palpable waves of worry and
fear that tangled the threads which bound him to her, but he could also
feel her strength and the limitless reserve she had to persevere no matter
the situation. She loved him and would grieve for him but if he did not
survive this day she would go on, she had the hospital and all her staff
counting on her. He left her, bent over files, her obligation to those she
could still help.

 With a fond smile, Wilson allowed himself to be drawn towards the other
strands which linked him to the world. Some were as wispy as mere
thoughts, and those he could identify as his patients. He drifted past
rooms of those he had labored to save and saw the gossamer strings of
their own lives snapping one by one. Families gathered around those
deathbeds, their grief strengthening the strands but ultimately unable to
prevent those wishing for freedom from going. Wilson paused, offering Mr.
Chen a parting smile as the old man's last breath severed the single
strand holding him back. He watched his former patient rise mist-like into
the light above, departing in a sparkling shower that settled lovingly and
unseen over those he left behind, thickening the threads which bound them
even more. He could feel his own strands fraying as he lingered and knew
he could put off no longer facing the inevitable. 

 Following one of the other, more substantial pulls on his soul, Wilson
found himself in the ICU. Cameron stood between Chase and Foreman, three
grim faced guardians to the still figure in the bed. Wilson didn't have to
look at himself, this close he could feel the serious damage done to his
body, but the sight of that shell lying amid a tangle of medical equipment
like a fly caught in a web brought only a sense of indifference. It was
weird to know how close to death he was and not feel some concern but it
was like watching it all happen to someone else. Wilson realized he should
be worried, the possibility of his death should bring with it rage or
regret or some strong emotion but he could feel nothing for the seemingly
lifeless casing lying before him. The three young doctors radiated sorrow,
their own bonds to him had thinned and unraveled, but when they spoke,
their words rang with the kind of professional optimism doctors employee
when the chances were very slim. Cameron's eyes were moist, and he
recalled words she had spoken; was this her protest against the passing of
a good person? Wilson sighed, he didn't begrudge her that fantasy, but he
realized he deserved no more monument than anyone else. He was no saint,
nor a martyr, he was just a man and if few would grieve his death the
blame lay within him.

 He turned to the others waiting nearby, his parents looked older than he
remembered. They sat together, hands entwined, leaning against each other
as if that would provide strength. Their worry was deep and keen and it
caused the thread which linked them to him to spasm and kink, its silvered
surface changing to a muddy brown. They had lost one son and Wilson could
feel their fear that they might lose another. He let a wave of love wash
through him and marveled as the thread began to thicken, regaining some of
its luster. They didn't deserve this, to suffer because he had been
careless or inattentive, they should be at home gently teasing each other
in the way he had learned signaled the love they had for each other. He
had never seen them argue, or heard a cross word from either, they had
always been affectionate and so much in love with each other that he'd
spent his whole adult life trying to find the same thing. They should be
living their golden years dangling grandchildren on their knees instead of
sitting in an ICU waiting room. 

 Wilson hovered there for a long time, watching and listening to those
around him. So many people were concerned about him, they stopped to check
on his condition, and offer their hopes and prayers - so many people but
not the one person he needed to see. Darkness was falling again when he
turned away from the tableau before him, giving into the insistent pull
which had been drawing him all day, every moment since the accident. He
drifted along nearly deserted hallways, witnessing the routine he saw
every day from his new perspective. He rarely thought about anything other
than his own patients or those of House's he dealt with but he could feel
all the others now. Some of them seemed to call to him, others skittering
away as he drifted onward but all of them trailed silvery threads, broken
and fraying. His own link shimmered before him, thicker now as he rose to
the fourth floor of the hospital and made his way to House's office.

 He could feel House out on the balcony and found him there sitting in one
of the chairs, a blanket draped carelessly over his legs, an untouched cup
of coffee beside him and staring up at the darkening sky. Wilson shook his
head at the picture; he could see Cameron's fingerprints all over the
scene. House had probably retreated here early this morning, waiting for
the cards to fall one way or the other. Cameron would have come to him,
drawn by his seemingly indifference to what was happening to his best
friend, she would have offered comfort and been rebuffed by his silence,
leaving him with a sad smile and protection against the cold. Wilson
drifted closer, the shimmering threads he had followed congealed here,
thicker than all the others combined but still frayed and dulled. He could
feel no sorrow or fear from House, but as he moved closer Wilson saw that
his friend was trapped inside a world of pain.

 House's eyes were dry and his face blank of emotion. He had one hand
curled against his chest and for just an instant Wilson worried that he'd
hurt himself. But there was no blood, no wound, just those long slender
fingers slowly rubbing back and forth over the center of his chest. In the
gathering darkness Wilson could see that this was the spot where the
thread which bound them together touched House's body. Everyone he had
encountered trailed hundreds of life threads, some as fine as silk, others
ropy strands but all linking them to the people around them, House was
different. The thread which stretched between them, though wounded, still
glimmered with the silvery light Wilson had come to associate with love
but it did so alone. Oh, there were a few others linked to House but these
were so thin they were nearly invisible and dark in color. One, Wilson
assumed it must link House to his mother, had random sparks of light but
the remaining few appeared withered and one was just a ruined black stub
that must had been the bond he'd had with Stacy. 

 Wilson moved closer, his instincts screaming that he needed to get House
inside out of the cold but House lurched forward, his hand scrabbled for
his cane and with monumental effort he pushed himself to his feet, holding
onto the wall for support. Wilson circled him, moving around so that he
stood in front of House, standing so that the link which bound thickened
and solidified, engulfing them like a living cocoon. He smiled, or
imagined that he smiled because the darkness seemed to rush away as they
stood there face to face. He wanted to reach out and touch House but
couldn't overcome the lingering memory of what had happened with the
jogger. Warmth and light and a sense of complete wellbeing filled Wilson
as he stood before House. House's gaze shifted to Wilson's office, his
face still devoid of any emotion but his eyes were filled with anguish.
His lips moved, silently forming words but not words directed at God,
these words Wilson could feel, they trembled along the bond between them.
"Don't leave me, Jimmy," House said.

 "I won't," Wilson promised but House did not hear him. "House, I'm here."
House lifted his free hand, pressing the palm flat over his heart and
holding it there over the thread that linked them. He blinked slowly, and
his face seemed to age a dozen years in that instant. "House," Wilson
whispered again and watched as House's gaze swung away from the dark
office, towards the horizon. For just a second he thought House's eyes
locked to his, he could see fear and pain in the blue depths, splintering
the mischievous humor and inherent intelligence until all that remained
was the eyes of a friend afraid of being left alone. House lifted his
hand, his fingers unknowingly tracing along the shimmering thread, and as
he did something happened; the wonder of light began to grow, spreading
out until he could see House's shadow on the nighttime balcony. The life
thread between them thrummed with something that made Wilson's chest ache
and soothed some of the lines from House's face. He could see fiery sparks
skitter along with the motion of House's hand, pushing light like liquid
flame along the bond until it reached the place on Wilson's chest where it
connected them. 

 Wilson opened his mouth to say House's name again but the warmth
intensified, spearing through him and he looked back over his shoulder. A
well of pure white light had opened behind him, it shown over him,
caressing him like a thousand loving hands. It poured the sensation of
peace and promise and he knew he could go into it, he could turn away from
this world and walk into that blazing light and never again be sad or
scared or want for anything. He knew it, and he wanted it with a longing
he'd never experienced before, with a longing that torn at his heart and
soul. If he just walked forward there would be nothing but Good for all
eternity, and that had been in short supply in his life. Wilson knew that
this chance was because of House, somehow being here with him and feeling
the love which had always been between them had brought this about. 

 His body was dying and he could go but Wilson could not bring himself to
take that step. He turned. House stood there, his hand extended, fingers
curled around that last thread, the only one which linked him to Wilson.
Sorrow and pain had etched themselves across his face, making him look old
and tired, as if the life were draining out of him with each passing
moment but his need glowed like a diamond there on the cold balcony,
surrounding him with a brilliance that blotted out even that celestial
light. Wilson felt it call him, beckoning with blinding promise and spread
his arms, surrendering himself and stepped towards the source of all
happiness he had ever known. House's hand seemed to momentarily press just
above his heart and then, as he knew it would, pass through and into him.
It hurt, pain tore through him, exploding from his chest and burning along
his limbs. He could feel himself being ripped away from House, swept up in
a storm of agony so horrible he cried out. And at the moment he thought he
could no longer stand it, that he would be nothing more than a charred
cinder, everything went black.

 He felt the hand which held his first, the slight pulse of life that
somehow managed to transcend the numbness which had enveloped him. "Hey,"
House said quietly and the pressure on his fingers increased just a
little. Wilson could feel the bond between them, that shimmering light
which linked them, growing stronger. He forced himself to open his eyes
and smiled when House's stubbled face appeared before him. "I thought you
were going to leave me," he whispered.

 Wilson, aching and sore, took strength from the thread of life which held
him to his friend, "You wouldn't let go." 

  
   Please post a comment on this story.  


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.