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Title: AGAINST THE CURRENT
Author: Mer
Rating: PG for nasty Anglo-Saxon words
Words: 12,983
Prompt: #83. House finds out what happened to Wilson's long lost brother.
Disclaimer: Not mine, but I can still covet.
Notes: Set just after “Detox.” The timing doesn’t precisely fit canon, but canon doesn’t really fit canon. Fortunately time is not a fixed construct. Thanks to the lovely Jo for the beta.
September 1995
As a boy growing up in Princeton, the sheltered middle son of a respected professor, James Wilson had known that there were areas of the city where you simply didn't go after dark. Some of those places you didn’t even go in the daylight. At least not alone. He decided to try those places first.
He and his friends had often haunted the bars in the no-man’s land between town and gown, where they didn’t look too closely at your ID. There had been something thrilling about slinking down to the mean streets, acting tough in the safety of numbers, sneaking a cigarette or a toke and drinking watered-down beer, pretending it made you drunk.
There was nothing thrilling about wandering the streets in search of your brother.
He hadn’t seen Michael since the evening of James’s 21st birthday, nearly seven years ago. It should have been a happy celebration, a passage into adulthood. His parents had booked a private room at their favourite restaurant, inviting family and James’s closest friends. Halfway through dinner, Michael still hadn’t shown up, though he had promised he would make it. He finally made an appearance during dessert, stumbling in drunk, just in time to knock over the waiter carrying the birthday cake. In the confusion that followed, James had sat hunched in his chair, while his father and brother screamed at each other, his mother sobbed, and the rest of the guests made excuses to leave. Joni was the only one of his friends who stayed, holding his hand while his family crumbled around him. He often wondered if that was why he had later married her.
The next day Michael had cleaned out his bank account and disappeared.
His father had kept him updated over the years. Michael was in Mexico; Michael had sent a postcard from Florida; Michael had been picked up for vagrancy in Texas and needed bail money. Then nothing for three years. Just after James had started his final year of residency, Michael had returned to New Jersey. He had showed up to Sabbath dinner strung out on heroin, had been caught raiding their mother’s jewellery box, and in the resulting argument, accidentally knocked her to the ground. Wilson’s father had been enraged and banished Michael from their home. But Helen Wilson wasn’t as willing to let go of her first-born.
Helen had shared what little information she had with James when he had returned to Princeton and asked him to try to help his brother. She hadn’t needed to ask. James adored Michael, despite everything.
He wandered through the alleyways, pulling his coat tightly around his body – even though the weather was mild – trying to be unobtrusive. But of course he was intruding, going where he hadn’t been invited, peering at ragged strangers in hopes of a glimpse of his brother. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been looking, showing Michael’s picture to anybody who would meet his eyes. It was getting late; soon it would be too dark to see clearly. Already it was hard to discern the faces in the shadows. And then James saw him.
He was facing away, but James would have known him anywhere. Michael was wearing his old letterman’s jacket. It was torn now, the colours faded and the white now grey, and much too thin for the coming winter. James was glad he’d worn his heavy overcoat. If he couldn’t convince Michael to come home with him, at the very least he could give him something warmer to wear. But he would convince Michael.
Still he hesitated, unsure how to approach his brother, now that he’d finally found him. He walked slowly towards him, stopping a foot away. “Michael.”
Michael turned, shoulders stiff, expression suspicious. The suspicion didn’t fade with recognition. “Jimmy. What brings you round these parts? Slumming?” His face was thinner, hair longer and unkempt, but the eyes were the same – the dark brown Wilson eyes under heavy brows, eyes so dark that it was easy to miss how dilated his pupils were.
James decided to interpret the question broadly. “I’ve moved back. I’ve got a fellowship at Princeton-Plainsboro. Oncology.”
“That’s nice. Mom and Dad must be glad to have their golden boy home.”
“They’d like to have you home, too. Mom asked me to find you.”
For a moment a glimmer of the old Michael flickered in his eyes, and then it was gone. “You found me. Good for you. You can tell Mom you did your duty and leave with your conscience clear.”
Part of him was tempted. Part of him wanted to turn around and leave and tell his mother that Michael was fine and not to worry. But it wasn’t true and James had never been able to lie to his mother. He reached out and touched Michael’s shoulder. “I’d rather leave with you.”
Michael jerked away from his touch, batting his hand away. “And I’d rather you just left me alone.”
But it was in James’s nature to try, even where there was no hope. “Why don’t you come home with me? You can get cleaned up, get some decent food, a good night’s sleep, and then we can look into getting you into a programme. I know some good ones.” He had spent the last week asking colleagues for advice and investigating a variety of options.
Michael shook his head. “Don’t, Jimmy. Don’t try and help me.”
James rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re my brother, Michael. I love you. I want to help you.”
“And I don’t want your help. I just want to be left alone. Can’t you understand that?” Michael spun away and paced in a rambling circle. “You never could leave me alone,” he accused. “Always following me about, always getting in the way. You were a pain then and you’re a pain now.”
It was the drugs talking, James told himself, pushing back the instinctive hurt and betrayal. He and Michael had been more than brothers; they’d been friends. “Let me help you get clean and then I promise I’ll leave you alone. For the rest of your life, if you want.”
“Or you can leave me alone now.” Michael stopped pacing and pulled a knife out of his coat pocket. “Get out of here, Jimmy. You don’t belong here.”
“Neither do you,” James replied desperately. “Just come home with me. Things will get better.” He didn’t stop to wonder why he was inviting a man wielding a knife at him into his home. This was his brother.
‘You don’t understand. You’ve never understood. This is what I want.”
James looked around him at the garbage-strewn alleyway, the boarded up windows, the shadows that would never be reached by dim streetlights. How could anyone want this? “Let me help you, Michael,” he pleaded. “We can figure something out together. You’re too smart to throw your life away like this.”
Michael laughed, a dark bitter sound that made the hair on the back of Wilson’s neck flutter. “The smartest thing I ever did was to get away from our perfect, perfect parents and their perfect, perfect lives and their unreasonable expectations. ‘How could you get a B on that exam, Michael? What do you mean you’re not playing baseball this spring?’ Nothing I did was ever good enough for them.” He looked at Wilson appraisingly, taking in the suit and tie, the neat haircut, the practical, heavy overcoat. Michael wasn’t the only one who had changed. “They fucked you up too, Jimmy. You just don’t know it yet. You used to want to be a musician. Do you even play any more?”
He hadn’t played in months, but he wasn’t going to admit that to Michael. Still, the guitar was one of the few things he’d moved immediately from Boston. “They just wanted what was best for you. They still do.”
Michael stared at him, an expression of contempt twisting his features. “For a whiz kid, you’re pretty stupid. They don’t want me. They want some idealized version of their first-born. Well, you’re it now, so enjoy.”
“Stop it,” James whispered, something breaking inside him as he realized the brother he’d adored was truly gone. He tried to hold onto what was left. “You think I can replace you? You think they’re ever going to forget you? You think I’ll ever forget you? You can’t just tear somebody out of your heart.”
For a moment he thought he’d gotten through to Michael, but then his brother shook his head, his eyes once again unfocused. “Sure you can. It’s easy. You’re dead to me. Dead.” Michael slashed the knife through the air for punctuation, just as James stepped forward. The blade ripped through the heavy overcoat, the coat he had wanted to give to Michael, snagging on the material, but penetrating deeply enough to cut into flesh.
For a moment they stood motionless, Wilson’s eyes wide with sudden pain and sorrow, as he stared at Michael, whose own eyes had filled with horror. Then Michael pulled the knife free and pushed James away from him, turning to run.
James stumbled backwards, tangling his feet up in a torn cardboard box, losing his balance and falling. He hit the back of his head against the concrete wall, and as he landed awkwardly on the ground the world faded into shades of grey.
When he could see again, Michael was gone and he was lying in a pile of garbage. A burning in his shoulder overshadowed his aching head when he sat up. He investigated tentatively and his fingers came away red with blood. He wondered if he was going to die alone in an alley by his brother’s hand.
That thought was enough to galvanize him into action. He couldn’t allow his parents to lose two sons. Tentatively he flexed his right arm. He could move without too much pain, as long as he didn’t try to pull his arm back. Fortunately he had enough range of motion to be able to use both hands to undo his tie. He didn’t bother to try and open his shirt – the alley was dirty and he didn’t want to risk exposing the open wound. He made a pressure bandage out of his handkerchief and wound the tie overtop his shirt and handkerchief, binding it tightly enough, he hoped, to stop or at least slow the bleeding.
Next he investigated the bump on his head. That, at least, wasn’t bleeding, which was a small blessing. He didn’t think he’d be able to treat an open head wound, not without help. He stood up slowly, leaning against the wall when he was overcome by a wave of dizziness. His stomach roiled and he gagged, but managed to fight back the bile that rose in his throat. Closing his eyes, he rested a few minutes, before trying to move again. He took a few unsteady steps and managed to make it to the signpost at the nearest street corner.
It was a good thing he hadn’t driven. There was no way he would be able to drive safely and he wouldn’t want to leave his car in this neighbourhood too long. Fortunately Joni had insisted that he buy a cell phone. It was still in his pocket, as was his wallet. He supposed he should be grateful his brother hadn’t robbed him as well.
He leaned against the signpost and called a cab. This wasn’t a neighbourhood where you could just flag one down. By the time it arrived, he was feeling a little better. His stomach had settled down once he got away from the garbage and the shoulder wound seemed to have stopped bleeding. He would need stitches though.
“Where you going?” the cab driver asked, looking at him suspiciously.
That was an excellent question. He could head back to the apartment and try to suture the wound himself. But he wasn’t sure if his suture kit had been unpacked and he probably needed a tetanus shot. The sensible decision would be to go to a clinic or emergency room, but he wasn’t certain he could face the questions that would be asked. Of course the clinic at Princeton-Plainsboro would have all the supplies he needed. He could find an unused exam room, fix himself up, and no one would be the wiser. “Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital,” he said.
The cabbie nodded, seemingly satisfied that the destination explained his bedraggled appearance, and James settled gingerly into the back seat. He didn’t want to get blood on the upholstery and any pressure on his shoulder sent bolts of agony radiating through his entire arm. It was less than five minutes to the hospital, but James thought the trip would never end.
He staggered slightly when he got out of the cab, but a couple of deep breaths cleared his head slightly and he was able to walk relatively steadily into the clinic. Fortunately, he had his ID badge with him and he clipped it onto his coat. He didn’t recognise the nurse at the desk, but he didn’t really know anybody yet. The ID and a charming smile were enough to get him waved through to the exam area, but as he looked around for an empty exam room, a wave of dizziness buffeted him again and he swayed.
"Are you all right?"
He turned to see who was talking to him and lost his already tenuous balance. Somebody grabbed his right arm to steady him and he cried out at the sudden flash of pain. Hands shifted and he was guided into a nearby chair.
"Blood on his shirt," somebody called out. "I need some help here."
Maybe it would be all right, Wilson thought, to let somebody else handle things for awhile. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall, breathing evenly and deliberately to push back the pain. A sharp slap to his cheek snapped his eyes open.
A doctor leaned over him, wielding his penlight like a weapon. “Stay with me, buddy,” he ordered.
Wilson blinked and tried to focus. “I’m fine,” he muttered.
“Doctors,” the other man replied. “Always the worst patients.” He checked Wilson’s makeshift bandage quickly and shook his head. “I just have to get rid of a patient and then I can examine you. Are you going to be all right for a few minutes?”
Wilson nodded. “I’ll just rest here,” he decided, pretending that he could have strolled away if he wanted to, when he wasn’t entirely sure he could remain sitting up.
The doctor frowned and shoved a copy of People magazine at him. “Don’t go to sleep until I’ve checked you out for a concussion. Concentrate on Madonna’s breasts instead.”
It took a great deal of concentration, indeed, as the photo shoot was primarily headshots, but Wilson used his imagination to fill in the rest. He was so absorbed, in fact, that he didn’t hear footsteps approaching him.
"Can you tell me what happened, Dr. Wilson?"
Wilson blinked and looked up at a policeman. My brother happened, he thought. But he would never say those words aloud. "I was mugged in an alley. I didn't see his face," he lied. The doctor had returned as well and watched him with sharp blue eyes.
”You said he. So it was a man?”
Wilson could be a convincing liar, but sorrow and pain made it difficult to concentrate. “Just a sense,” he said. “The breathing. It sounded like a male. And he was taller than I was. That much I could tell.” He was talking too much, if he wasn’t careful he’d say something that would implicate Michael. “I’m sorry, it was all a bit of a nightmare.”
Help came from an unexpected source. “Dr. Wilson has lost a lot of blood and he’s suffering from a concussion,” the doctor snapped. “He’s not in any condition to be questioned.”
The policeman patted him on the uninjured shoulder. “I understand. Here’s my card. When you feel up to it, I’d like you to come down to the station to file an official report.”
Wilson took the card and slipped it into his jacket pocket. He would have to make the report. It would be suspicious if he didn’t.
“Do you think you can walk to an exam room?” the doctor asked.
The last thing Wilson wanted was to be wheeled around the hospital less than a week into his fellowship. “I can walk,” he replied, pushing himself upright. Fortunately, the doctor had a strong grip on his good arm, for he immediately swayed and might have toppled over without it.
“I hope you walk better than you stand,” the doctor observed, slipping an arm around his shoulder and guiding him to the closest exam room. He waited until Wilson was seated on the table and then gently eased off his coat and jacket. "Why did you lie about not seeing him?"
"I didn't lie."
"You were stabbed from the front in broad daylight. I would think it would be difficult not to see your assailant."
"He hit me on the head first," Wilson hedged, glad now of the concussion.
The doctor shook his head. "Nice try. But the position of the head injury is all wrong, unless you were attacked by a midget or a child. My guess is he pushed you backwards after he stabbed you and you hit your head when you fell."
"Who are you, Sherlock Holmes?"
The doctor grinned saucily. "Close, but no cigar. Greg House. Nephrology and infectious diseases. You didn’t answer my question.”
“What question?” He knew he was risking hospitalization for a higher-grade concussion than he actually had, but the prevarication was instinctive. He could tell House knew it was prevarication, for he just waited. Wilson realised that limited frankness would be the only option. "I went somewhere I shouldn't have. There's no need for someone else to pay for my stupidity."
House looked at him speculatively. "And you're not concerned that this man with a knife will be a danger to anyone else?"
It was a worry, certainly, but even now Wilson cared more about his brother than any one else. “I don’t think he intended to hurt me,” he said, hoping it was the truth. “I made a mistake.”
House didn’t say anything as he cleaned the shoulder wound, for which Wilson was grateful. “You’re going to need stitches.” He studied Wilson with unnerving directness. “Were you planning on seeking medical help or did you think wrapping a tie around a knife wound would be sufficient?”
“I was going to look after it,” Wilson replied defensively. "I just needed a suture kit."
"And how were you planning on sewing up your own shoulder?"
Wilson wiggled his left hand. “Southpaw,” he said.
House handed him a needle. “All right, then. Go at it.”
Wilson blinked. Perhaps the head injury was worse than he thought. “What?”
“You heard me.” House retreated to his desk and slouched into his chair. “I’ve got better things to do than to fix your mistakes.” He picked up the People magazine and started leafing through it.
For a moment Wilson thought he was losing his mind. Then he was afraid he was losing his composure, which was an infinitely more terrifying prospect. He bit down hard on his lip. He glanced around the exam room and spied a mirror by the cabinet that was at the right height. It seemed a long way away, but he managed to walk over without appearing to stagger. He wondered if he should ask for a local anaesthetic, but decided the pain would help keep him focused.
He had sutured himself before. During his intern year he had gone on a hiking trip with some non-medical friends and fallen, cutting open his knee. He’d had a suture kit with him that time and was glad of it. It was a little more complicated trying to do it one-handed, but he’d won bets over the years for his facility at suturing left-handed, right-handed, one-handed and even blindfolded.
He was just about to make the initial suture when a hand closed over his hand and he was turned away from the mirror and led back to the bed. House took the needle back from him and without saying a word closed the wound with a gentleness that made Wilson want to cry.
“I didn’t think you’d actually do it,” House admitted when he finished, but there was a glint of admiration in his eyes. “Now that you’re not in any danger of bleeding to death, let’s check out the head injury. Did you lose consciousness?”
Wilson shook his head. “I greyed out, but only for a few seconds. Some initial double-vision.”
“Headache?”
Wilson nodded.
“Nausea?”
Wilson grimaced. “Yes, but it could have been from the pile of garbage I fell in.”
House wrinkled his nose. “Well, that explains the fetching aroma. I’d ask about confusion and memory loss, but that seems deliberate, so I doubt I could make a proper evaluation.” He brought the penlight out again and checked Wilson’s pupils, then led him through a standard neuro exam. “Everything looks good,” he pronounced, “but I’m going to send you for a CT scan just to be safe.” He glanced at his watch. “In fact, if I take you now, that should just about do clinic duty for me for the day.” There was something almost gleeful in his expression that Wilson suspected had absolutely nothing to do with a CT scan. “If you think you can manage to stay on your feet, I’ll spare you the humiliation of being wheeled through the halls of the hospital.”
It was an offer too good to refuse, but by the time they reached radiology Wilson was exhausted and he lay down readily. He didn’t object when House himself performed the scan, though it seemed unusual. The fewer people involved the better. He was still lying on the exam bed, trying to ignore the pain in his shoulder when House came back with the results. “Good news,” he proclaimed. “You’re not bleeding into your brain. You’re free to go.”
That should have been excellent news, but Wilson was too sore and tired to get up.
“Is there somebody we should call?” House asked, frowning at his recumbent patient. “Your wife?”
Wilson glanced at his left ring finger and shook his head. “She’s in Boston, trying to sublet the apartment.”
“What about your parents?” House grinned when Wilson frowned. “Princeton is just one big intellectual circle jerk. I’ve been to a couple of your dad’s lectures. Fascinating.”
Part of Wilson’s mind registered surprise that House would have been at a theoretical physics lecture, but he was mainly concerned that the flash of panic he’d felt didn’t register on his face. The last thing he wanted was for his parents to find out about tonight. “They’re away,” he lied desperately.
“Really,” House replied, his tone leaving no doubt that he didn’t believe him. “I suppose I could admit you for observation.” His eyebrows rose when Wilson didn’t object. “Interesting. You lied to the police. And since one of those lectures I attended was last night, I’m pretty sure you just lied to me about your parents. Which means it’s something personal, since you don’t seem to mind everyone at work finding out that you took a walk on the wild side and got stabbed for your troubles.” He drummed his fingers on the bed. “I asked your father about you and he’s thrilled that you’re back in Princeton, so it can’t be that you’re estranged.”
“You asked my father about me?” Wilson asked, almost as unnerved by that as by the thought that his parents might find out about Michael. He sat up cautiously, relatively pleased that both the pain and his head remained steady.
House looked surprised. “Of course. I check out all the new doctors. Particularly the ones that will rotate through my department.”
Shit, Wilson thought. Infectious diseases. That particular rotation was going to be challenging.
“I saw you there,” House continued. “You actually looked interested, so I thought you must be a grad student. Until I saw the family resemblance. No paternity questions there.”
Wilson had seen pictures of his father at his age. If his mother hadn’t frequently told stories about the 23 hours she spent in labour with him, he might almost have believed that he’d sprung solely from his father’s loins. “I did my undergrad in physics,” he replied, trying to forget how much Michael had once looked like their mother and how much he had changed. “It made my father happy. Becoming a doctor made my mother happy.”
He looked up and swallowed nervously at the unasked question in House’s eerily penetrating gaze. “Look, you said yourself that I’m all right. I know what to watch for. I’ll be fine on my own.”
“I said you weren’t bleeding into your brain. I didn’t say you were all right.” House drummed his fingers some more. “I can admit you, though if you don’t think that will get back to your parents eventually you’re either incredibly naïve or the CT scan was wrong.” He cocked his head to the side, considering. “I’m about to clock out for the day. I’ll give you a ride home and if you buy me dinner, I’ll stick around long enough to make sure you don’t slip into a coma.”
It was an offer he should have been wary of, but Wilson was too tired to work it out. “Why?” he asked, hoping for an easy answer. He would learn soon enough that there was no such thing as an easy answer with Greg House.
“Because you made clinic duty bearable.” House shrugged. “And because you intrigue me. A squeaky-clean doctor with a dark secret. Don’t see many of those outside General Hospital.”
Years later it would occur to Wilson that the most important relationship in his life was based on a dubious association with a daytime soap. “Everybody has secrets,” he said at the time.
House shrugged again. “But most of them aren’t very interesting.” He subjected Wilson to a penetrating scrutiny that was surprisingly not uncomfortable. “I think you might be a keeper, though.”
“Why?” Wilson repeated, not sure he really wanted to know the answer.
“Because I need a Dr. Watson and you’ve at least got the right initials.” House rapped him sharply on the uninjured shoulder with his file. “Don’t argue. We can stop and pick up videos on the way and I know all the best places that deliver in town.”
Wilson had to admit it sounded appealing. He didn’t have many friends left in Princeton – most of his childhood companions had moved on to jobs in larger cities – and Joni was in no rush to move away from her friends in Boston. He wondered if it had been loneliness that drove him onto the streets to look for Michael. He stared at the floor, swallowing back a fresh bubble of grief. Another rap on his shoulder brought his head up again.
“Come on. If you dilly-dally, they might come up with another patient for me to treat down there.”
Wilson quirked an eyebrow. “Dilly-dally? What are you, my mother?”
“God forbid. I bet that was a thankless job.”
The words hit him like a punch to the gut and he looked away, trying to school his features. He would give anything to be able to bring his mother good news. He had no idea what he would tell her now. When he looked back, House was pretending to read over the scan results, giving him some privacy. “Let’s go,” he said, pleased that his voice was steady. “I’d hate to be the cause of you actually having to treat a patient.”
House grinned and held out his hand, ostensibly to help him to his feet. It felt like a welcome though. Still, Wilson needed to clear something up. He cleared his throat nervously. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention this to my father.”
The penetrating look returned. “Why?”
How was he supposed to answer that? Invoke doctor-patient confidentiality? Play off a friendship that didn’t yet exist? Beg or bribe? He settled for a straightforward appeal. “Because it would hurt him more to know than not to know.”
House studied him silently. It was as invasive as a full body scan and considerably more effective. “Tell you what. I’ll keep your little adventure on the wrong side of town our secret on one condition.”
Wilson nodded, knowing he didn’t have any choice but to agree.
“One of these days, you tell me the truth.”
Part II – February 2005
Author: Mer
Rating: PG for nasty Anglo-Saxon words
Words: 12,983
Prompt: #83. House finds out what happened to Wilson's long lost brother.
Disclaimer: Not mine, but I can still covet.
Notes: Set just after “Detox.” The timing doesn’t precisely fit canon, but canon doesn’t really fit canon. Fortunately time is not a fixed construct. Thanks to the lovely Jo for the beta.
September 1995
As a boy growing up in Princeton, the sheltered middle son of a respected professor, James Wilson had known that there were areas of the city where you simply didn't go after dark. Some of those places you didn’t even go in the daylight. At least not alone. He decided to try those places first.
He and his friends had often haunted the bars in the no-man’s land between town and gown, where they didn’t look too closely at your ID. There had been something thrilling about slinking down to the mean streets, acting tough in the safety of numbers, sneaking a cigarette or a toke and drinking watered-down beer, pretending it made you drunk.
There was nothing thrilling about wandering the streets in search of your brother.
He hadn’t seen Michael since the evening of James’s 21st birthday, nearly seven years ago. It should have been a happy celebration, a passage into adulthood. His parents had booked a private room at their favourite restaurant, inviting family and James’s closest friends. Halfway through dinner, Michael still hadn’t shown up, though he had promised he would make it. He finally made an appearance during dessert, stumbling in drunk, just in time to knock over the waiter carrying the birthday cake. In the confusion that followed, James had sat hunched in his chair, while his father and brother screamed at each other, his mother sobbed, and the rest of the guests made excuses to leave. Joni was the only one of his friends who stayed, holding his hand while his family crumbled around him. He often wondered if that was why he had later married her.
The next day Michael had cleaned out his bank account and disappeared.
His father had kept him updated over the years. Michael was in Mexico; Michael had sent a postcard from Florida; Michael had been picked up for vagrancy in Texas and needed bail money. Then nothing for three years. Just after James had started his final year of residency, Michael had returned to New Jersey. He had showed up to Sabbath dinner strung out on heroin, had been caught raiding their mother’s jewellery box, and in the resulting argument, accidentally knocked her to the ground. Wilson’s father had been enraged and banished Michael from their home. But Helen Wilson wasn’t as willing to let go of her first-born.
Helen had shared what little information she had with James when he had returned to Princeton and asked him to try to help his brother. She hadn’t needed to ask. James adored Michael, despite everything.
He wandered through the alleyways, pulling his coat tightly around his body – even though the weather was mild – trying to be unobtrusive. But of course he was intruding, going where he hadn’t been invited, peering at ragged strangers in hopes of a glimpse of his brother. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been looking, showing Michael’s picture to anybody who would meet his eyes. It was getting late; soon it would be too dark to see clearly. Already it was hard to discern the faces in the shadows. And then James saw him.
He was facing away, but James would have known him anywhere. Michael was wearing his old letterman’s jacket. It was torn now, the colours faded and the white now grey, and much too thin for the coming winter. James was glad he’d worn his heavy overcoat. If he couldn’t convince Michael to come home with him, at the very least he could give him something warmer to wear. But he would convince Michael.
Still he hesitated, unsure how to approach his brother, now that he’d finally found him. He walked slowly towards him, stopping a foot away. “Michael.”
Michael turned, shoulders stiff, expression suspicious. The suspicion didn’t fade with recognition. “Jimmy. What brings you round these parts? Slumming?” His face was thinner, hair longer and unkempt, but the eyes were the same – the dark brown Wilson eyes under heavy brows, eyes so dark that it was easy to miss how dilated his pupils were.
James decided to interpret the question broadly. “I’ve moved back. I’ve got a fellowship at Princeton-Plainsboro. Oncology.”
“That’s nice. Mom and Dad must be glad to have their golden boy home.”
“They’d like to have you home, too. Mom asked me to find you.”
For a moment a glimmer of the old Michael flickered in his eyes, and then it was gone. “You found me. Good for you. You can tell Mom you did your duty and leave with your conscience clear.”
Part of him was tempted. Part of him wanted to turn around and leave and tell his mother that Michael was fine and not to worry. But it wasn’t true and James had never been able to lie to his mother. He reached out and touched Michael’s shoulder. “I’d rather leave with you.”
Michael jerked away from his touch, batting his hand away. “And I’d rather you just left me alone.”
But it was in James’s nature to try, even where there was no hope. “Why don’t you come home with me? You can get cleaned up, get some decent food, a good night’s sleep, and then we can look into getting you into a programme. I know some good ones.” He had spent the last week asking colleagues for advice and investigating a variety of options.
Michael shook his head. “Don’t, Jimmy. Don’t try and help me.”
James rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re my brother, Michael. I love you. I want to help you.”
“And I don’t want your help. I just want to be left alone. Can’t you understand that?” Michael spun away and paced in a rambling circle. “You never could leave me alone,” he accused. “Always following me about, always getting in the way. You were a pain then and you’re a pain now.”
It was the drugs talking, James told himself, pushing back the instinctive hurt and betrayal. He and Michael had been more than brothers; they’d been friends. “Let me help you get clean and then I promise I’ll leave you alone. For the rest of your life, if you want.”
“Or you can leave me alone now.” Michael stopped pacing and pulled a knife out of his coat pocket. “Get out of here, Jimmy. You don’t belong here.”
“Neither do you,” James replied desperately. “Just come home with me. Things will get better.” He didn’t stop to wonder why he was inviting a man wielding a knife at him into his home. This was his brother.
‘You don’t understand. You’ve never understood. This is what I want.”
James looked around him at the garbage-strewn alleyway, the boarded up windows, the shadows that would never be reached by dim streetlights. How could anyone want this? “Let me help you, Michael,” he pleaded. “We can figure something out together. You’re too smart to throw your life away like this.”
Michael laughed, a dark bitter sound that made the hair on the back of Wilson’s neck flutter. “The smartest thing I ever did was to get away from our perfect, perfect parents and their perfect, perfect lives and their unreasonable expectations. ‘How could you get a B on that exam, Michael? What do you mean you’re not playing baseball this spring?’ Nothing I did was ever good enough for them.” He looked at Wilson appraisingly, taking in the suit and tie, the neat haircut, the practical, heavy overcoat. Michael wasn’t the only one who had changed. “They fucked you up too, Jimmy. You just don’t know it yet. You used to want to be a musician. Do you even play any more?”
He hadn’t played in months, but he wasn’t going to admit that to Michael. Still, the guitar was one of the few things he’d moved immediately from Boston. “They just wanted what was best for you. They still do.”
Michael stared at him, an expression of contempt twisting his features. “For a whiz kid, you’re pretty stupid. They don’t want me. They want some idealized version of their first-born. Well, you’re it now, so enjoy.”
“Stop it,” James whispered, something breaking inside him as he realized the brother he’d adored was truly gone. He tried to hold onto what was left. “You think I can replace you? You think they’re ever going to forget you? You think I’ll ever forget you? You can’t just tear somebody out of your heart.”
For a moment he thought he’d gotten through to Michael, but then his brother shook his head, his eyes once again unfocused. “Sure you can. It’s easy. You’re dead to me. Dead.” Michael slashed the knife through the air for punctuation, just as James stepped forward. The blade ripped through the heavy overcoat, the coat he had wanted to give to Michael, snagging on the material, but penetrating deeply enough to cut into flesh.
For a moment they stood motionless, Wilson’s eyes wide with sudden pain and sorrow, as he stared at Michael, whose own eyes had filled with horror. Then Michael pulled the knife free and pushed James away from him, turning to run.
James stumbled backwards, tangling his feet up in a torn cardboard box, losing his balance and falling. He hit the back of his head against the concrete wall, and as he landed awkwardly on the ground the world faded into shades of grey.
When he could see again, Michael was gone and he was lying in a pile of garbage. A burning in his shoulder overshadowed his aching head when he sat up. He investigated tentatively and his fingers came away red with blood. He wondered if he was going to die alone in an alley by his brother’s hand.
That thought was enough to galvanize him into action. He couldn’t allow his parents to lose two sons. Tentatively he flexed his right arm. He could move without too much pain, as long as he didn’t try to pull his arm back. Fortunately he had enough range of motion to be able to use both hands to undo his tie. He didn’t bother to try and open his shirt – the alley was dirty and he didn’t want to risk exposing the open wound. He made a pressure bandage out of his handkerchief and wound the tie overtop his shirt and handkerchief, binding it tightly enough, he hoped, to stop or at least slow the bleeding.
Next he investigated the bump on his head. That, at least, wasn’t bleeding, which was a small blessing. He didn’t think he’d be able to treat an open head wound, not without help. He stood up slowly, leaning against the wall when he was overcome by a wave of dizziness. His stomach roiled and he gagged, but managed to fight back the bile that rose in his throat. Closing his eyes, he rested a few minutes, before trying to move again. He took a few unsteady steps and managed to make it to the signpost at the nearest street corner.
It was a good thing he hadn’t driven. There was no way he would be able to drive safely and he wouldn’t want to leave his car in this neighbourhood too long. Fortunately Joni had insisted that he buy a cell phone. It was still in his pocket, as was his wallet. He supposed he should be grateful his brother hadn’t robbed him as well.
He leaned against the signpost and called a cab. This wasn’t a neighbourhood where you could just flag one down. By the time it arrived, he was feeling a little better. His stomach had settled down once he got away from the garbage and the shoulder wound seemed to have stopped bleeding. He would need stitches though.
“Where you going?” the cab driver asked, looking at him suspiciously.
That was an excellent question. He could head back to the apartment and try to suture the wound himself. But he wasn’t sure if his suture kit had been unpacked and he probably needed a tetanus shot. The sensible decision would be to go to a clinic or emergency room, but he wasn’t certain he could face the questions that would be asked. Of course the clinic at Princeton-Plainsboro would have all the supplies he needed. He could find an unused exam room, fix himself up, and no one would be the wiser. “Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital,” he said.
The cabbie nodded, seemingly satisfied that the destination explained his bedraggled appearance, and James settled gingerly into the back seat. He didn’t want to get blood on the upholstery and any pressure on his shoulder sent bolts of agony radiating through his entire arm. It was less than five minutes to the hospital, but James thought the trip would never end.
He staggered slightly when he got out of the cab, but a couple of deep breaths cleared his head slightly and he was able to walk relatively steadily into the clinic. Fortunately, he had his ID badge with him and he clipped it onto his coat. He didn’t recognise the nurse at the desk, but he didn’t really know anybody yet. The ID and a charming smile were enough to get him waved through to the exam area, but as he looked around for an empty exam room, a wave of dizziness buffeted him again and he swayed.
"Are you all right?"
He turned to see who was talking to him and lost his already tenuous balance. Somebody grabbed his right arm to steady him and he cried out at the sudden flash of pain. Hands shifted and he was guided into a nearby chair.
"Blood on his shirt," somebody called out. "I need some help here."
Maybe it would be all right, Wilson thought, to let somebody else handle things for awhile. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall, breathing evenly and deliberately to push back the pain. A sharp slap to his cheek snapped his eyes open.
A doctor leaned over him, wielding his penlight like a weapon. “Stay with me, buddy,” he ordered.
Wilson blinked and tried to focus. “I’m fine,” he muttered.
“Doctors,” the other man replied. “Always the worst patients.” He checked Wilson’s makeshift bandage quickly and shook his head. “I just have to get rid of a patient and then I can examine you. Are you going to be all right for a few minutes?”
Wilson nodded. “I’ll just rest here,” he decided, pretending that he could have strolled away if he wanted to, when he wasn’t entirely sure he could remain sitting up.
The doctor frowned and shoved a copy of People magazine at him. “Don’t go to sleep until I’ve checked you out for a concussion. Concentrate on Madonna’s breasts instead.”
It took a great deal of concentration, indeed, as the photo shoot was primarily headshots, but Wilson used his imagination to fill in the rest. He was so absorbed, in fact, that he didn’t hear footsteps approaching him.
"Can you tell me what happened, Dr. Wilson?"
Wilson blinked and looked up at a policeman. My brother happened, he thought. But he would never say those words aloud. "I was mugged in an alley. I didn't see his face," he lied. The doctor had returned as well and watched him with sharp blue eyes.
”You said he. So it was a man?”
Wilson could be a convincing liar, but sorrow and pain made it difficult to concentrate. “Just a sense,” he said. “The breathing. It sounded like a male. And he was taller than I was. That much I could tell.” He was talking too much, if he wasn’t careful he’d say something that would implicate Michael. “I’m sorry, it was all a bit of a nightmare.”
Help came from an unexpected source. “Dr. Wilson has lost a lot of blood and he’s suffering from a concussion,” the doctor snapped. “He’s not in any condition to be questioned.”
The policeman patted him on the uninjured shoulder. “I understand. Here’s my card. When you feel up to it, I’d like you to come down to the station to file an official report.”
Wilson took the card and slipped it into his jacket pocket. He would have to make the report. It would be suspicious if he didn’t.
“Do you think you can walk to an exam room?” the doctor asked.
The last thing Wilson wanted was to be wheeled around the hospital less than a week into his fellowship. “I can walk,” he replied, pushing himself upright. Fortunately, the doctor had a strong grip on his good arm, for he immediately swayed and might have toppled over without it.
“I hope you walk better than you stand,” the doctor observed, slipping an arm around his shoulder and guiding him to the closest exam room. He waited until Wilson was seated on the table and then gently eased off his coat and jacket. "Why did you lie about not seeing him?"
"I didn't lie."
"You were stabbed from the front in broad daylight. I would think it would be difficult not to see your assailant."
"He hit me on the head first," Wilson hedged, glad now of the concussion.
The doctor shook his head. "Nice try. But the position of the head injury is all wrong, unless you were attacked by a midget or a child. My guess is he pushed you backwards after he stabbed you and you hit your head when you fell."
"Who are you, Sherlock Holmes?"
The doctor grinned saucily. "Close, but no cigar. Greg House. Nephrology and infectious diseases. You didn’t answer my question.”
“What question?” He knew he was risking hospitalization for a higher-grade concussion than he actually had, but the prevarication was instinctive. He could tell House knew it was prevarication, for he just waited. Wilson realised that limited frankness would be the only option. "I went somewhere I shouldn't have. There's no need for someone else to pay for my stupidity."
House looked at him speculatively. "And you're not concerned that this man with a knife will be a danger to anyone else?"
It was a worry, certainly, but even now Wilson cared more about his brother than any one else. “I don’t think he intended to hurt me,” he said, hoping it was the truth. “I made a mistake.”
House didn’t say anything as he cleaned the shoulder wound, for which Wilson was grateful. “You’re going to need stitches.” He studied Wilson with unnerving directness. “Were you planning on seeking medical help or did you think wrapping a tie around a knife wound would be sufficient?”
“I was going to look after it,” Wilson replied defensively. "I just needed a suture kit."
"And how were you planning on sewing up your own shoulder?"
Wilson wiggled his left hand. “Southpaw,” he said.
House handed him a needle. “All right, then. Go at it.”
Wilson blinked. Perhaps the head injury was worse than he thought. “What?”
“You heard me.” House retreated to his desk and slouched into his chair. “I’ve got better things to do than to fix your mistakes.” He picked up the People magazine and started leafing through it.
For a moment Wilson thought he was losing his mind. Then he was afraid he was losing his composure, which was an infinitely more terrifying prospect. He bit down hard on his lip. He glanced around the exam room and spied a mirror by the cabinet that was at the right height. It seemed a long way away, but he managed to walk over without appearing to stagger. He wondered if he should ask for a local anaesthetic, but decided the pain would help keep him focused.
He had sutured himself before. During his intern year he had gone on a hiking trip with some non-medical friends and fallen, cutting open his knee. He’d had a suture kit with him that time and was glad of it. It was a little more complicated trying to do it one-handed, but he’d won bets over the years for his facility at suturing left-handed, right-handed, one-handed and even blindfolded.
He was just about to make the initial suture when a hand closed over his hand and he was turned away from the mirror and led back to the bed. House took the needle back from him and without saying a word closed the wound with a gentleness that made Wilson want to cry.
“I didn’t think you’d actually do it,” House admitted when he finished, but there was a glint of admiration in his eyes. “Now that you’re not in any danger of bleeding to death, let’s check out the head injury. Did you lose consciousness?”
Wilson shook his head. “I greyed out, but only for a few seconds. Some initial double-vision.”
“Headache?”
Wilson nodded.
“Nausea?”
Wilson grimaced. “Yes, but it could have been from the pile of garbage I fell in.”
House wrinkled his nose. “Well, that explains the fetching aroma. I’d ask about confusion and memory loss, but that seems deliberate, so I doubt I could make a proper evaluation.” He brought the penlight out again and checked Wilson’s pupils, then led him through a standard neuro exam. “Everything looks good,” he pronounced, “but I’m going to send you for a CT scan just to be safe.” He glanced at his watch. “In fact, if I take you now, that should just about do clinic duty for me for the day.” There was something almost gleeful in his expression that Wilson suspected had absolutely nothing to do with a CT scan. “If you think you can manage to stay on your feet, I’ll spare you the humiliation of being wheeled through the halls of the hospital.”
It was an offer too good to refuse, but by the time they reached radiology Wilson was exhausted and he lay down readily. He didn’t object when House himself performed the scan, though it seemed unusual. The fewer people involved the better. He was still lying on the exam bed, trying to ignore the pain in his shoulder when House came back with the results. “Good news,” he proclaimed. “You’re not bleeding into your brain. You’re free to go.”
That should have been excellent news, but Wilson was too sore and tired to get up.
“Is there somebody we should call?” House asked, frowning at his recumbent patient. “Your wife?”
Wilson glanced at his left ring finger and shook his head. “She’s in Boston, trying to sublet the apartment.”
“What about your parents?” House grinned when Wilson frowned. “Princeton is just one big intellectual circle jerk. I’ve been to a couple of your dad’s lectures. Fascinating.”
Part of Wilson’s mind registered surprise that House would have been at a theoretical physics lecture, but he was mainly concerned that the flash of panic he’d felt didn’t register on his face. The last thing he wanted was for his parents to find out about tonight. “They’re away,” he lied desperately.
“Really,” House replied, his tone leaving no doubt that he didn’t believe him. “I suppose I could admit you for observation.” His eyebrows rose when Wilson didn’t object. “Interesting. You lied to the police. And since one of those lectures I attended was last night, I’m pretty sure you just lied to me about your parents. Which means it’s something personal, since you don’t seem to mind everyone at work finding out that you took a walk on the wild side and got stabbed for your troubles.” He drummed his fingers on the bed. “I asked your father about you and he’s thrilled that you’re back in Princeton, so it can’t be that you’re estranged.”
“You asked my father about me?” Wilson asked, almost as unnerved by that as by the thought that his parents might find out about Michael. He sat up cautiously, relatively pleased that both the pain and his head remained steady.
House looked surprised. “Of course. I check out all the new doctors. Particularly the ones that will rotate through my department.”
Shit, Wilson thought. Infectious diseases. That particular rotation was going to be challenging.
“I saw you there,” House continued. “You actually looked interested, so I thought you must be a grad student. Until I saw the family resemblance. No paternity questions there.”
Wilson had seen pictures of his father at his age. If his mother hadn’t frequently told stories about the 23 hours she spent in labour with him, he might almost have believed that he’d sprung solely from his father’s loins. “I did my undergrad in physics,” he replied, trying to forget how much Michael had once looked like their mother and how much he had changed. “It made my father happy. Becoming a doctor made my mother happy.”
He looked up and swallowed nervously at the unasked question in House’s eerily penetrating gaze. “Look, you said yourself that I’m all right. I know what to watch for. I’ll be fine on my own.”
“I said you weren’t bleeding into your brain. I didn’t say you were all right.” House drummed his fingers some more. “I can admit you, though if you don’t think that will get back to your parents eventually you’re either incredibly naïve or the CT scan was wrong.” He cocked his head to the side, considering. “I’m about to clock out for the day. I’ll give you a ride home and if you buy me dinner, I’ll stick around long enough to make sure you don’t slip into a coma.”
It was an offer he should have been wary of, but Wilson was too tired to work it out. “Why?” he asked, hoping for an easy answer. He would learn soon enough that there was no such thing as an easy answer with Greg House.
“Because you made clinic duty bearable.” House shrugged. “And because you intrigue me. A squeaky-clean doctor with a dark secret. Don’t see many of those outside General Hospital.”
Years later it would occur to Wilson that the most important relationship in his life was based on a dubious association with a daytime soap. “Everybody has secrets,” he said at the time.
House shrugged again. “But most of them aren’t very interesting.” He subjected Wilson to a penetrating scrutiny that was surprisingly not uncomfortable. “I think you might be a keeper, though.”
“Why?” Wilson repeated, not sure he really wanted to know the answer.
“Because I need a Dr. Watson and you’ve at least got the right initials.” House rapped him sharply on the uninjured shoulder with his file. “Don’t argue. We can stop and pick up videos on the way and I know all the best places that deliver in town.”
Wilson had to admit it sounded appealing. He didn’t have many friends left in Princeton – most of his childhood companions had moved on to jobs in larger cities – and Joni was in no rush to move away from her friends in Boston. He wondered if it had been loneliness that drove him onto the streets to look for Michael. He stared at the floor, swallowing back a fresh bubble of grief. Another rap on his shoulder brought his head up again.
“Come on. If you dilly-dally, they might come up with another patient for me to treat down there.”
Wilson quirked an eyebrow. “Dilly-dally? What are you, my mother?”
“God forbid. I bet that was a thankless job.”
The words hit him like a punch to the gut and he looked away, trying to school his features. He would give anything to be able to bring his mother good news. He had no idea what he would tell her now. When he looked back, House was pretending to read over the scan results, giving him some privacy. “Let’s go,” he said, pleased that his voice was steady. “I’d hate to be the cause of you actually having to treat a patient.”
House grinned and held out his hand, ostensibly to help him to his feet. It felt like a welcome though. Still, Wilson needed to clear something up. He cleared his throat nervously. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention this to my father.”
The penetrating look returned. “Why?”
How was he supposed to answer that? Invoke doctor-patient confidentiality? Play off a friendship that didn’t yet exist? Beg or bribe? He settled for a straightforward appeal. “Because it would hurt him more to know than not to know.”
House studied him silently. It was as invasive as a full body scan and considerably more effective. “Tell you what. I’ll keep your little adventure on the wrong side of town our secret on one condition.”
Wilson nodded, knowing he didn’t have any choice but to agree.
“One of these days, you tell me the truth.”
Part II – February 2005
no subject
I'll quote my favorite parts:
"But it was in James’s nature to try, even where there was no hope." so accurate. That's why he's in oncology.
"Wilson wiggled his left hand. “Southpaw,” he said." He just seems really likable, just from that sentence.
“I think you might be a keeper, though.” Nothing else to be said but <3333333xa million.
“Because I need a Dr. Watson and you’ve at least got the right initials.” Seriously, I love how you write House. Spot-on, and I've been craving some 'how House and Wilson first met' stories. :D Thanks!
no subject
Yes, you wouldn't know from watching anything past S1 that Wilson had brothers (if you missed "Histories" you wouldn't know it at all). They threw it in as a plot point once and seem to have forgotten about it. But it's provided me with a lot of story material, so I'm not complaining too much!
I was having fun with the Holmes-House comparison with this one. Holmes and Watson met in part as a result of Watson being injured in the shoulder while in the army, so I thought I'd do the same with House-Wilson.
no subject
I know this story's pretty old, but I just found it, so thank you so much for writing it and sharing it with us. It's going to be my first mem'd fic.