Wilson's End.
Title: Wilson's End
Author: caiiwinchester
Rating: R for Theme.
Summary: Wilson decides he can't live without her anymore.
Spoilers: Spoilers for 'Wilson's Heart' and anywhere up to that,
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I don't own Wilson or any other of the characters from House. I just borrow them for my own little pleasures.
Author's Notes: First actual Wilson!fic ever. Be nice x3 It may be splendidly out of character, but this idea has been plaguing me ever since I watched 'Wilson's Heart' and I was like: 'I have to write this!' Also, it's unbeta'd, so every mistake is mine :)
He'd known he was going to end his life for around five days now. If he had to pinpoint the exact moment that he decided, it would be when Amber Volakis died in his arms.
The apartment seemed foreign without her and he definitely did not feel like he belonged there. Often, he found himself wandering aimlessly around her apartment, trying not to focus on the never-ending list of objects that probably still held Amber's scent, or had some meaningful memory attached to them. But he'd never move anything, not ever. He couldn't allow himself to betray her memory like that.
Officially, James Wilson was a broken man. He'd refused to see anyone at all, had shut himself up in Amber's - wrong, it was HIS now - apartment, and had ignored the phone and the door completely. He didn't want to see anyone. Least of all his so-called friends from work. Cuddy had tried to call him the most, he reckoned. She was the only one who really cared for his well-being. His other colleagues were just showing generic support for him at 'this hard point' in his life. It was insulting.
And then there was House...Gregory House, the man who'd gotten his girlfriend killed.
His mind apparently didn't want to dwell on that subject for too long, but the thought caused his eyes to be drawn to the small, orange pot that was on the coffee table in front of him, just next to the empty bottle of liquor. 'Vicodin', the bottle read. 'House, Gregory'. If it was one thing the cripple was good for, it was his endless supply of drugs. And maybe, just maybe, if he was lucky, House would get blamed for his death too.
In some perverse way, Wilson almost gained pleasure from that fact. His mind was definitely a mess. At that moment, however, he cared no more than he cared about House at that moment; which was seemingly very little.
He reached out to pick up the pot, missing it the first time around as the alcohol in his system started to take effect. As his hand grasped at open air, he cursed inwardly. "Come on..." He croaked, his voice sounding downright unused. "Have to...Do this..." With great concentration, and one his second attempt, his hand closed around the pot of Vicodin and he pulled it towards his body, holding it there for a moment as though it was going to run away from him.
The cap popped off easily, making a dulled noise as it hit the carpeted floor. Wilson didn't even register it, all his concentration focused on the contents of the small pot. He'd seen House throw them back so many times before, it seemed stupidly easy. So, all he had to do, was tip a couple into his mouth, and swallow. The first two went down easily. So easily, that he didn't even have to swig from the liquor bottle. When it came to around the tenth pill or so, the cotton mouth started to set in. He licked his lips in vain, unable to gain the saliva he needed to help the moisture return to his mouth. "Just...A few more...That should do it." The pot was nearly half-empty now, and Wilson was sure that if he wanted to do the job properly, he needed to take them all.
His house phone started ringing, causing him to start suddenly and spill the rest of the pills onto the floor of the apartment. "No! No, no, no!" In an act of desperation, he dropped down to his knees and started to pick up the pills one-by-one, damn near forcing them down his throat. A few had rolled under the couch and he slid his hand under, trying to feel for them under there. Unfortunately, all he felt was the scraping on the back of his hand as the underneath of the sofa roughly scratched at his skin, taking off a couple of layers and drawing blood. It didn't hurt though, it didn't even smart a little. The Vicodin was beginning to kick in.
Wilson allowed himself to slump back, feelings of euphoria now floating around in his head. He could still hear the phone ringing, but it had now been joined by the sound of someone banging on the door. He just wanted to ignore it, wanted all the sounds to go away so that he could just lay there peacefully.
"Wilson! ...Wilson!"
"Go away. Just go away..." He moaned, his ears only able to hear it. Bile was beginning to rise in his throat and he swallowed it down. He couldn't be sick, not now, not at this stage. Black spots were beginning to appear in his vision now. Just a couple, but they were enough to snap him back to reality.
He was trying to kill himself.
The euphoria was beginning to wear off now, and his chest was burning. It was becoming hard to breathe. He didn't want to do this anymore. He was going to chicken out at the last moment like the coward he was. The black spots had grown in number now and his breathing was now heavily laboured.
"Wilson! Open this door!"
He tried to call out: 'Help! I don't want to die! Somebody fucking help me!' but his voice was now refusing to work at all. The door burst open. Wilson could hear footsteps and, worst of all, a cane.
"Wilson!?" Cuddy was here. "...House. Call an ambulance. Something's wrong with Wilson."
'Yes. Perfect,' he thought. 'Save me. Now!' The Vicodin bottle had rolled away somewhere unknown when Wilson had been startled, and the only trace of the pills were the ones that were hidden under the sofa. They had no idea how to save him. He tried to speak. Tried to tell them how to help him, but he couldn't even move his lips anymore. He was slipping away, slowly, and painfully. The irony of the pain medication was that it caused immense pain as it killed you.
His vision was almost completely black now, save for the few slices of light that were ebbing in. A face hovered into his view, but it wasn't Cuddy's. It was House.
"Wilson. What did you do? Answer me!" House's cane was tapped sharply by his earlobe, but Wilson didn't even react to it. He couldn't physically react to it.
"Hou-se..."
"Yes, tell me. What. Did. You. Do?"
"...M'sor-ry...Not...Your...Fault..."
"House? What's he talking about?" But House didn't hear her. He was too busy watching his best friend die on the floor, right in front of him.
"...Cancel the ambulance." The Vicodin bottle had been spotted. "He overdosed."
"...What? Then we need the ambulance! We can still-!"
"No, he's gone." The finality of that sentence rang out through the apartment like a church bell. Cuddy poorly held in a sob, moving herself so she was bent down by the now immobile body of Dr. James Wilson. In death, he still looked in pain. The anguish and sorrow in his eyes still shone for just a moment, before they slowly faded into a blank, dead stare. The rigor mortis wouldn't begin to set in for another three hours yet, meaning he would be able to be moved into a more dignified position before he was taken away; or before his parents saw him, which was what Cuddy had been thinking.
His last thoughts, before the darkness had fully set in, had been sparing, fleeting and reflected what he held most important to him:
'I'm gonna be with you now, Amber.'
Author: caiiwinchester
Rating: R for Theme.
Summary: Wilson decides he can't live without her anymore.
Spoilers: Spoilers for 'Wilson's Heart' and anywhere up to that,
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I don't own Wilson or any other of the characters from House. I just borrow them for my own little pleasures.
Author's Notes: First actual Wilson!fic ever. Be nice x3 It may be splendidly out of character, but this idea has been plaguing me ever since I watched 'Wilson's Heart' and I was like: 'I have to write this!' Also, it's unbeta'd, so every mistake is mine :)
He'd known he was going to end his life for around five days now. If he had to pinpoint the exact moment that he decided, it would be when Amber Volakis died in his arms.
The apartment seemed foreign without her and he definitely did not feel like he belonged there. Often, he found himself wandering aimlessly around her apartment, trying not to focus on the never-ending list of objects that probably still held Amber's scent, or had some meaningful memory attached to them. But he'd never move anything, not ever. He couldn't allow himself to betray her memory like that.
Officially, James Wilson was a broken man. He'd refused to see anyone at all, had shut himself up in Amber's - wrong, it was HIS now - apartment, and had ignored the phone and the door completely. He didn't want to see anyone. Least of all his so-called friends from work. Cuddy had tried to call him the most, he reckoned. She was the only one who really cared for his well-being. His other colleagues were just showing generic support for him at 'this hard point' in his life. It was insulting.
And then there was House...Gregory House, the man who'd gotten his girlfriend killed.
His mind apparently didn't want to dwell on that subject for too long, but the thought caused his eyes to be drawn to the small, orange pot that was on the coffee table in front of him, just next to the empty bottle of liquor. 'Vicodin', the bottle read. 'House, Gregory'. If it was one thing the cripple was good for, it was his endless supply of drugs. And maybe, just maybe, if he was lucky, House would get blamed for his death too.
In some perverse way, Wilson almost gained pleasure from that fact. His mind was definitely a mess. At that moment, however, he cared no more than he cared about House at that moment; which was seemingly very little.
He reached out to pick up the pot, missing it the first time around as the alcohol in his system started to take effect. As his hand grasped at open air, he cursed inwardly. "Come on..." He croaked, his voice sounding downright unused. "Have to...Do this..." With great concentration, and one his second attempt, his hand closed around the pot of Vicodin and he pulled it towards his body, holding it there for a moment as though it was going to run away from him.
The cap popped off easily, making a dulled noise as it hit the carpeted floor. Wilson didn't even register it, all his concentration focused on the contents of the small pot. He'd seen House throw them back so many times before, it seemed stupidly easy. So, all he had to do, was tip a couple into his mouth, and swallow. The first two went down easily. So easily, that he didn't even have to swig from the liquor bottle. When it came to around the tenth pill or so, the cotton mouth started to set in. He licked his lips in vain, unable to gain the saliva he needed to help the moisture return to his mouth. "Just...A few more...That should do it." The pot was nearly half-empty now, and Wilson was sure that if he wanted to do the job properly, he needed to take them all.
His house phone started ringing, causing him to start suddenly and spill the rest of the pills onto the floor of the apartment. "No! No, no, no!" In an act of desperation, he dropped down to his knees and started to pick up the pills one-by-one, damn near forcing them down his throat. A few had rolled under the couch and he slid his hand under, trying to feel for them under there. Unfortunately, all he felt was the scraping on the back of his hand as the underneath of the sofa roughly scratched at his skin, taking off a couple of layers and drawing blood. It didn't hurt though, it didn't even smart a little. The Vicodin was beginning to kick in.
Wilson allowed himself to slump back, feelings of euphoria now floating around in his head. He could still hear the phone ringing, but it had now been joined by the sound of someone banging on the door. He just wanted to ignore it, wanted all the sounds to go away so that he could just lay there peacefully.
"Wilson! ...Wilson!"
"Go away. Just go away..." He moaned, his ears only able to hear it. Bile was beginning to rise in his throat and he swallowed it down. He couldn't be sick, not now, not at this stage. Black spots were beginning to appear in his vision now. Just a couple, but they were enough to snap him back to reality.
He was trying to kill himself.
The euphoria was beginning to wear off now, and his chest was burning. It was becoming hard to breathe. He didn't want to do this anymore. He was going to chicken out at the last moment like the coward he was. The black spots had grown in number now and his breathing was now heavily laboured.
"Wilson! Open this door!"
He tried to call out: 'Help! I don't want to die! Somebody fucking help me!' but his voice was now refusing to work at all. The door burst open. Wilson could hear footsteps and, worst of all, a cane.
"Wilson!?" Cuddy was here. "...House. Call an ambulance. Something's wrong with Wilson."
'Yes. Perfect,' he thought. 'Save me. Now!' The Vicodin bottle had rolled away somewhere unknown when Wilson had been startled, and the only trace of the pills were the ones that were hidden under the sofa. They had no idea how to save him. He tried to speak. Tried to tell them how to help him, but he couldn't even move his lips anymore. He was slipping away, slowly, and painfully. The irony of the pain medication was that it caused immense pain as it killed you.
His vision was almost completely black now, save for the few slices of light that were ebbing in. A face hovered into his view, but it wasn't Cuddy's. It was House.
"Wilson. What did you do? Answer me!" House's cane was tapped sharply by his earlobe, but Wilson didn't even react to it. He couldn't physically react to it.
"Hou-se..."
"Yes, tell me. What. Did. You. Do?"
"...M'sor-ry...Not...Your...Fault..."
"House? What's he talking about?" But House didn't hear her. He was too busy watching his best friend die on the floor, right in front of him.
"...Cancel the ambulance." The Vicodin bottle had been spotted. "He overdosed."
"...What? Then we need the ambulance! We can still-!"
"No, he's gone." The finality of that sentence rang out through the apartment like a church bell. Cuddy poorly held in a sob, moving herself so she was bent down by the now immobile body of Dr. James Wilson. In death, he still looked in pain. The anguish and sorrow in his eyes still shone for just a moment, before they slowly faded into a blank, dead stare. The rigor mortis wouldn't begin to set in for another three hours yet, meaning he would be able to be moved into a more dignified position before he was taken away; or before his parents saw him, which was what Cuddy had been thinking.
His last thoughts, before the darkness had fully set in, had been sparing, fleeting and reflected what he held most important to him:
'I'm gonna be with you now, Amber.'