An alternate ending to Not Cancer
written for prompted_quill
“In giving advice, seek to help, not please, your friend.” ~Solon
After House left and the door closed behind him, Wilson rested his forehead against it for a moment, summoning up the energy to go on. He felt angry and sad and devastated. Finally he pushed himself away from the door, and headed into the kitchen where he retrieved a bottle of scotch and a single glass. He retreated back into the living room, poured two fingers, and began to think where all of this went wrong.
He was so alone, which he wasn't used to. He had his family growing up, and then his wives, and of course House. And then Amber, who changed his life, who loved him for who he was, and who could even tolerate House. He drained the glass and poured two fingers more.
And as he sat there in the dark all he could think about was how wrong it all was, how wrong and unfair life was, and how much his heart ached without Amber. Tears slid down his cheeks, and deep sobs wracked his body as he gave over to the foolishness of the evening and the grief of losing the only person, wait two people who had ever cared about him at all.
He was well on his way to being drunk, when he heard a familiar knock. “House, go away,” he bellowed. He couldn't deal with House anymore, he needed to move on.
There was some slight scratching sounds, and then a few moments later, Wilson felt the couch cushions shift and settle, as House sat down next to him. Neither of them said a word for some time. House, seeing Wilson in such despair, was for once at a loss for words. Finally, he was able to say what he had came to say. “Solon once said, '“In giving advice, seek to help, not please, your friend.' I know anything I say right now won't matter. But I am so sorry.” House placed another bottle of scotch down on the table, along with a refill of Wilson's antidepressants along side of it. “For tomorrow. I trust you not to mix the two.” He then placed an white envelope down on the table, and using his cane to push himself to his feet, he left Wilson's apartment silently as he came.
When he had finally drunk all he could stomach, he stumbled into the bedroom. Seeing the perfect bed there, reminded him of coming home that fateful evening and finding Amber's letter. Dejected he collapsed to the bed in sobs that carried on long after he fell asleep. Alone.
Wilson woke up the next morning with an acrid stomach and a killer headache. He headed into the kitchen for some water and asprin, and as he was walking back to the bedroom, he again saw the contents of his coffee table. He walked over and picked up the white envelope and opened it. He found several candid pictures of Amber, when she was trying out for House's team, and he had to smile at the openness of her smile, her expressions. There was also several pieces of sheet music, entitled what looked like 'jr high,' and a cd. Swallowing a mouthful of water, Wilson curiously took the cd to the stereo and inserted it.
Soft piano music began to play. It took Wilson a moment to recognize it, but once he did he realized it was the piece that House had started in junior high that had been finished by his patient Patrick, before he lost his genius.
Wilson sat down and listened, and continued to look through the pictures of Amber. The last one wasn't of Amber, but of he and House laughing over something, both unaware the picture was being taken. Wilson put the pictures down and put his head in his hands, and let the tears flow. And he sat alone again, with the pieces of his past that brought him here, and sobbed.