The Cruelest Month
Title: The Cruelest Month
Author: rivercrossing2
Prompt: #32: While House is in the mental hospital Wilson falls into a deep depression.
Pairing: None
Category: Hurt/Comfort
Rating/Warning: Spoilers for Season 5's Finale "Both Sides Now"; PG13 for thoughts of suicide
Words: 2,012
Summary: Sometimes May is the cruelest month...
Disclaimer: Do I sound like David Shore? Because if I do, it might mean that I have a brain problem!
A/N: Title comes from the poem "The Waste Land" by T.S. Elliot.
"April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory with desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain."
-T.S. Elliot, "The Waste Land", ca. 1922
May the Twentieth.
This day now stood out as one of the darkest and grimmest days in James Wilson’s life. It was the day that took his beloved Amber away from him. She’d been so young (only twenty-seven) and it didn’t seem fair that not only would he be able to see her again, touch her again, make love to her again…but that she had lost her life at such a young age. She’d had so much potential, so many possibilities. She was a brilliant doctor and a unique individual. Now she was gone, and he only had the wonderful memories with which to remind him of how special a part of his life she had once been.
He’d dreaded the day for a whole year now, and the time was finally upon him. May was a deadly month, it seemed…as May was the month that Amber died. May was the month that House had gone mad. He’d been so wrapped up in his own mind (what with finding Danny, and anxiously anticipating the anniversary of Amber’s death) that he hadn’t noticed House losing his mind. And then House had begun hallucinating. And then it was too late. Now House was at “Mayfield”…even the institution’s name seemed to taunt him. T.S. Elliot, in his poem “The Waste Land,” had written, “April is the cruelest month” but he was sorely mistaken. It was May.
That first night, he’d gone to a bar and gotten smashed, drinking beer after beer until he couldn’t see straight; could barely count out the cash. He’d had to find a cab to bring him home, for no way in hell was he taking the bus. He’d woken up with a killer headache and had to call in sick, and thankfully Cuddy---understanding what he’d been through that day---hadn’t asked any questions. So he’d stayed home. And tried to eat, but couldn’t eat. And tried to watch television, but nothing held his interest. And tried to think, but all he could see was House’s haunted, expression, and his horribly vacant, though pain-filled eyes…the window into a soul that was lost, wondering aimlessly in a deserted land…
Some nights, he’d found himself crying out House’s name in anguish, only to find that he was in his bed, alone. He’d been dreaming that House was calling for him. Some nights he’d be searching for both Amber and House amongst the twisted wreckage of steel and dozens of broken bodies injured beyond repair---and athough he’d hear their voices amongst the burning blaze of impenetrable rubble, he would never be able to find them.
At work, he couldn’t seem to concentrate. The words on charts and files would blend together into a mysterious code that he could never seem to break. He’d talk to his patients, but his voice would sound muffled in his own ears, as though he were speaking from under water. Sometimes, he could see visibly the concern on their faces, and when he’d come to and begin speaking again, he would smile guiltily and not know what to say. They always seemed to forgive him, even though he knew he didn’t deserve their forgiveness. They were dying, and he was thinking only of House…and himself. He wasn’t being a doctor; he was being a pathetic excuse of a human being. He would apologize again and again for his absences, as he began taking the sick days that he’d never used. Some days, it helped just to sleep as much as he could, because then he wouldn’t have to think about what was happening to House, and what was happening to Danny. It seemed like a cruel joke that he should have to worry about two people in the nuthouse…yet though it was a strange coincidence, this was simply the way it was.
When he began to run out of sick days, he began to worry about keeping his job. His patients were all dying: either on their third or fourth or fifth round of chemo and radiation treatment, but none of them were in remission. Checking up on his patients was the worst, as he felt as though he’d failed them somehow. When they appeared strong, he’d feel weak inside, and once the exchange was done and they knew that the end was near, they’d still thank him for telling them the truth. When before he’d felt brave, now he only felt like a coward. He’d say goodbye and remain huddled in the chair for hours afterwards, trembling with fear and weeping quietly into his lap.
He didn’t tell Cuddy any of this. He knew she would only worry about his well-being, and she was already worried about House as it was. It wouldn’t be fair to place this burden on her. He tried raising the dosage on the medication that he was already on, but it only made him sleepy and threatened to keep him from arriving at work on time, so he went back to the regular dosage. He visited his therapist twice a week instead of once, as it was all he could afford; yet even talking about House seemed to him to be selfish. After all, House’s problems far surpassed his own; who was he to be complaining? It wasn’t as if it were him who was hallucinating dead people…and that was another thing. He shouldn’t be angry that House was hallucinating Amber, but he was…angry because it wasn’t fair. He knew it was childish that he should be jealous, but he was. How dare he get to see her, when he could not! Apparently the hallucination was very life-like and spoke to House. Wilson hadn’t talked to House for weeks, as House wasn’t currently allowed any visitors, so Wilson didn’t know if House was still seeing Amber or not. He didn’t want to consider the possibility that House still was, because the burning sensation in his stomach would return with a vengeance and he’d be angry at House all over again.
Now, Wilson only saw Amber in his dreams and in his mind’s eye and whenever he saw someone who appeared even slightly like her on the street. He would see a blonde strutting with a determined confidence down the sidewalk ahead of him, and he’d rush up towards her, but when she’d turn her head to stare at him, it would be a stranger, not Amber at all. He’d apologize weakly, saying that he’d thought she was someone else, and then go on his way, trying to pretend like nothing had happened…except he knew he wasn’t fooling anyone with this act, especially not himself.
Then came one day when he received a phone call from the New York Psychiatric Institute, where Daniel was currently residing. The doctor very calmly told Wilson that Daniel was on suicide watch and that they were doing all they could to ensure his safety. The news left Wilson heartbroken and in tears, and for a moment, he was almost paralyzed by his misery. Barely suppressing a hysterical scream, he quickly hung up the phone and fled to the balcony that was adjacent to House’s own.
Except for maybe when he’d lost Amber, Wilson had never experienced this much pain before. It seemed to have a life of its own; seemed to take over him; swallow him whole. It held a sadness that seemed deeper than the deepest ocean, one that was rough with angry waves, threatening at any moment to pull him under, down into the black that went on forever.
He wasn’t sure whether he should be angry or relieved that it was Danny who was suicidal and not House. Then he felt guilty that he should think such a thing, as Danny was family and House was not. But House was family, just as much, if not more---as Danny had been gone for years, and Wilson loved House like they were brothers.
He needed House desperately right at that moment to shake him back into reality, but House was far away at Mayfield and was nowhere to be found. Not popping Vicodin on the balcony, as Wilson had almost hoped he would be, even though he knew he wouldn’t. Not in his office “differentialating” with his team, as Foreman had stepped in at Cuddy’s request to boldly attempt to take House’s place.
He ran to the edge of the balcony and clutched the wall to keep his body from from trembling, but it was no use. He couldn’t stop the tears from coming, either, as one by one they began to fall. He stared down at the parking lot below him and the trees that lined the pavement. It was a long way down from where he stood…such a long, long, long way down…
But he could do it. If he could just stop shaking and get some more strength. Just enough, to pull his right leg up onto the wall, and then hoist himself up…he could do it. If he could stop thinking of Cuddy’s grief, and how she would have to be mourning for two…Stop thinking of Kutner, and how if maybe he’d been there, none of that would have ever happened…Stop thinking of the sadness in Cameron’s eyes when she knew…stop thinking of Chase, and how angry he’d be that he’d done such a selfish thing…
He gasped when he felt two hands slide around his waste, and shuddered as he wondered if perhaps, maybe, he was beginning to lose it too. Maybe it was just an illusion of his stressed-out mind…Maybe this was what happened when a heart kept being broken…maybe he really was truly as trapped as he felt, truly so completely and utterly alone…
“Wilson,” said a soft, familiar voice, “Stop”: and he gasped again, because the voice was Cuddy’s.
It was Cuddy who was there with her arms wrapped around him, pulling him to her side; Cuddy who was there, to remind him that she cared.
“Oh, Cuddy…What am I going to do,” he sobbed hard into her chest, pulling her down as he crumpled into a ball on the floor. “What am I going to do? Everyone leaves me…everyone,” he added, with extra emphasis on the last.
“No, Wilson. Not everyone,” she whispered to him lovingly, and her voice was wet but strong. “Not everyone, James…House will be back…he’s not gone forever.”
“He’s trapped…he’s so lost…”
“He’ll find his way back, James. We just need to give him some time.”
“Please don’t leave me, Lisa,” he wept, “Please…I can’t do this alone…I can’t lose anyone else...I’ve already lost so much…so much, Lisa…”
“I know, honey, I know…” Cuddy was crying silently, as she held him tightly, cradling him in her arms as though he were a child all over again.
He felt like a child, but he didn’t want to let go. He couldn’t lose another person. Not this time.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said, with conviction, as though she could read his mind. “I’m right here. I’m not going to leave you.”
“Promise?” he whispered weakly, as she continued to hold him.
“I promise,” Cuddy whispered, her voice waterlogged from so many tears. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“Just don’t really die,” he said, as his lids began to flutter and started to close against his will. “Cross your heart, but please don’t really die.”
“Shhh,” Cuddy whispered, stroking his head as they sat together beneath the darkening sky,
“I won’t really die. It’s just a saying…now come inside.” She took his hand and again, like a child, led him into his office and helped him onto the couch. Like a mother, she began to untie his shoes and remove them, and like a child, he let her.
“I’m sorry, Lisa,” he muttered, as sleep was beginning to close in.
“It’s okay,” she said. “Try to get some sleep.”
“Will you be here when I wake up?” he mumbled, barely audible to his own ears.
“Yes, I will,” she said, and he could feel her presence near. “Now get some sleep…shhh…get some sleep.”
He did sleep. But he didn’t dream, and for that, he was grateful.